


White Hart, Blue Heart

by VulpesOrion



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: AU - medieval fantasy, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Bisexual Hank Anderson, Child Death, Connor is a faerie, Frottage, Gore, M/M, Mutual Pining, NOT platonic!, Shapeshifting, Strangers to Friends to Lovers, Suicidal Thoughts, Tags will be updated as the Story continues, except also not?, followed by ridiculous levels of sappiness and fluff, no beta we die like men, send me your dentist bills, slow burn... kind of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-30
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:15:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 35,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27791377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VulpesOrion/pseuds/VulpesOrion
Summary: All that has kept Hank going after the death of his son is the notion that he could bring Cole back. All he needs to do is capture the White Hart during the Hunt and he will earn one wish from the Faerie Queen. Sure, no one has accomplished it in nearly 30 years, but that doesn't make it impossible. But when, against all odds, Hank is successful, he finds that it is not what he had expected - not the Hart, not the wish, not any of it.
Relationships: Hank Anderson/Connor
Comments: 26
Kudos: 49





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Plot bunny bit me. I was planning on having this be one big oneshot but I don't have the patience for that, so I broke it up into chapters instead. It will not be terribly long and will update (god willing and the creek don't rise) every Sunday, with maybe early updates on Wednesday depending on how prolific I am. I am currently guessing this is going to clock in around 15k with 6 chapters but we will have to see how things evolve. This is dedicated to all the wonderful fanfiction authors whose works I have been voraciously consuming over the past two months. Y'all ruined my life. Thank you. <3
> 
> If you happen to also like Miraculous Ladybug and are here from my other fic - I SWEAR I'm going to finish that one too.
> 
> Oh and also obligatory David Cage is a hack

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for child death and a touch of gore. I am afraid we all know how this one goes. :(

“Papa, I’m cold. Can’t we stop?”

  
Hank bit back a sigh. “Not yet, Cole. Soon.”

  
Cole’s lips pooched out in a moue of disappointment, but he trudged along obediently after his father. Sumo, sensing his little master’s mood, woofed softly and licked at the boy’s free hand. Cole giggled and hugged the dog around the neck. _Good dog_ , Hank thought at the dog with a smile.

  
“Here we are,” he announced at last, bringing the cart to a halt.

Cole stopped too and peered curiously around Hank’s legs at the great fallen oak. “It’s a tree,” he said, clearly unimpressed.

  
“It’s a tree,” Hank agreed. “A dead tree, actually, which is exactly what we need.” His voice took on an instructional tone, the same one that his father had used all those years ago when he was a young boy learning about the Belle Frith for the first time. Hank chose his words very carefully, mindful of listening ears. “Many of the trees in this forest are protected by the Good Folk. It’s important to know what’s okay to cut and what isn’t.” He gestured to the tree. “Any trees that have fallen are fair game for us. But if you ever need to cut something down, you’ll have to choose your tree carefully.” Hank moved to a living tree nearby and waved Cole over as well. The boy crept closer and Hank crouched down to clear away the flora growing at the base of the tree.

  
“The easiest way to tell if a tree is protected is to look for its mark. It’ll usually be near the base – here we are.” Hank jabbed a finger at the faintly glowing ring of blue etched into the tree’s bark, far too perfect to be a natural occurrence. “So this tree would not be one we could cut down. The other way you can tell –” Hank leaned around to point to the far side of the tree “- is the moss. Trees claimed by the Gentry only grow moss on the north side. That means if you ever get lost, all you need to do is…”

  
Hank trailed off as he turned his head to look at his son. Cole was scooting his little rough-hewn duck along the ground. “Cole!” Hank said sharply. Cole’s head jerked up and he guiltily hid the toy behind his back. Hank sighed heavily. Perhaps Cole was too young for this. The boy had only seen six summers, and he was still full of a child’s love of play. On the other hand, living so close to Belle Frith was dangerous. After losing Cole’s mother to ague when the boy had been barely more than a babe, Hank was not about to take any chances. Instead, he took a deep breath to get his temper under control. “What did I just say, Cole?” he asked in a measured tone.

  
Cole squirmed uncomfortably. “Gotta look for a blue ring…” he mumbled. “’N the moss only grows…” His little face scrunched up as he struggled to recall past the point where his attention had lapsed.

  
“On the north side, that’s right,” Hank prompted. “So if you wanted to go home, you would go…”

  
Cole swiveled around to point back the way they had come. “Other way. South.”

  
“Good job.” Hank allowed himself to smile and ruffled his boy’s hair before getting to his feet. His knees creaked in protest, an unpleasant reminder that he was not young anymore. “Now,” he added. “I’ve got to chop a bit of wood off that tree before we head back. I need you to stay out of the way.”

  
“Aw, Papa,” Cole whined. “Can’t we just go home?”

  
Hank hesitated. As much as he wanted to agree with his son, someone had to be the responsible adult. The days were turning short and cold. He and Cole would need firewood to last them through the winter, and putting off the work meant running the risk of an even more arduous task tomorrow if snow should fall during the night. “Not yet, Cole.” He retrieved the axe from their cart and stretched out his shoulders. “Soon, I promise.”

  
“Can I go play, then?” Cole tilted his head hopefully.

  
“Tell me the rules first.”

  
Cole heaved a put-upon sigh. “Don’t go so far that I can’t hear you when you call. Don’t talk to strangers. Don’t tell anyone my name. Don’t accept presents or give anything away. Don’t eat or drink anything. Stay away from mushroom circles. Can I go now?”

  
“Okay, okay,” Hank allowed, chuckling slightly. “Take Sumo with you.”

  
The boy did not need to be told twice. He was already dashing off, Sumo hot on his heels. Hank turned his attention back to his work. He chose his spot carefully and heaved the first swing of the axe. In no time at all, sweat was pouring off of him and a familiar ache had settled in his muscles. ‘Half a cartload,’ he promised himself. Half a cartload and then he would allow Cole to ride back in the cart. They would go home and eat rabbit stew and then Hank could tell Cole one of the stories of Kamski the Trickster – perhaps the one where he created the stars and moon cycles by stealing light from the moon as she sle-

  
A snarling bark shattered Hank’s train of thought. His axe dropped from Hank’s nerveless hands and he took off running, screaming Cole’s name. He thought he could not get any more terrified, but then Sumo’s barks cut off abruptly, stayed quiet for a moment or two, and then the dog began to howl. Hank’s blood turned to ice in his veins. “Cole, where are you?”

  
Hank burst into the small clearing of trees and assessed the scene in mere moments. A blonde woman standing in an immaculately white shift, the mark of the Fae upon her temple, staring with a blank expression. Sumo, baying his distress and dancing at the edge of a ravine. As Hank approached, Sumo turned to his master and Hank caught a glimpse of the scrap of fabric still clenched between his jaws… A piece of Cole’s tunic…

  
“No… no, no, no.” Hank scrambled to the cliff’s edge and peered over, praying to God he would not see what he knew would be there. Cole was only barely visible, half hidden by bracken. “Cole!” Hank bellowed. The boy did not stir. “No, God, no…” Hank breathed. The only thing that kept him from diving headlong after his boy was the knowledge that if he injured himself, he could not help Cole. Instead he began his descent, partly climbing, partly sliding down the steep embankment. “I’m coming, Cole!”

  
It took Hank less than a minute to reach his son. “Cole, Cole, I’m here, baby. Papa is here.” Hank fought to keep his voice steady as he gathered the boy into his arms. “You’re going to be okay. I’ve got you.” Even as Hank voiced the words, he knew that they were not true. Cole’s limbs were bent in all the wrong places, and his head… A dent wept crimson where the boy must have hit a rock. Some part of Hank tried to point out that no one could survive an injury like that, but he shoved this voice roughly aside. “Just open your eyes for me, baby,” he whispered, brushing Cole’s hair back from his forehead and taking care not to touch that horrible, concave wound. “Please, just…”

  
Cole did not open his eyes. He remained limp in Hank’s arms, no breath in his tiny body. “No…” A tear dropped onto Cole’s cheek. Hank had not realized he had begun to cry. “No, God, please, don’t… Not him, not my little boy, not…” Something inside of Hank broke. He clasped Cole’s body tight against him, only vaguely aware that he was screaming. His grief echoed out across Belle Frith until it was lost amid the trees.

  
It was only after what felt like a long time that Hank recognized Sumo had joined in, a shivering wailing mixing with his own cries. Half-blind with tears, Hank turned his eyes up to see the dog who had done his best to protect his little ward up until the end. He was not alone. The pale circle of the Fae woman’s face swam in his vision, still utterly bereft of any emotion. “You.” Hank got unsteadily to his feet, still clutching Cole to him. “You did this!” Hank roared, his voice hoarse from screaming. “You did this! I’ll kill you!”

  
Threatening one of the Fair Folk was never a wise decision, and threatening one in Belle Frith where the veil between their worlds wore thin was nearly a death wish. Hank did not care. Let them strike him down. Hank almost wished that they would. Nothing mattered now, not with Cole’s body so still and quiet in his arms. He almost found himself regretful when no retribution came. Instead, the pale face vanished, and Hank was left alone with his dog and his dead son and the gathering darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case it wasn't deeply obvious, Belle Isle became Belle Frith, "frith" being an archaic word for forest or woods.
> 
> Kudos and comments give me life, give me motivation, give me hope in this hopeless time. If you could spare a few, that would mean the world. See y'all on Sunday! (Or maybe Wednesday we will see.)


	2. Chapter One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me, doing one modicum of research: Child mortality was actually quite high during this time period  
> Also me: That won't stop me because I can't read
> 
> Yeah so basically, while I am doing research, I am also taking some liberties in this world to tell the story that I want to tell. If you have cool facts that you think would be fun in this story or would just like to share, I would totally love to hear them! Any "well, actually"s will just make me sad, though. Please do not make me sad.
> 
> A shoutout to the Enterprise, the best group of friends a gal could ask for. Love you all to pieces.

“Fuck,” Hank muttered, shaking himself awake for the third time. His muscles cried out in protest, begging him to move more and work off the cold and stiffness that had settled in his limbs from many hours of inactivity. Hank refused, tightening his grip on his bow instead. He would not let this all be for nothing.

Three years had passed since that fateful afternoon in this forest. Three years, for Hank, of alcohol, self-loathing, and rage at the world, especially the Fae. On more than one drunken occasion, Hank had considered burning the little cottage that he had lived in his whole life to the ground. He hated living next to Belle Frith, and longed to sever ties with this place that belonged in part to their world. In the light of day, however, Hank knew that this was not an option. For one, he and Sumo would have nowhere to go. Hank had no family, and while Hank was fine sleeping in the shop, the noise and the smells of smithy made Sumo miserable. Hank may no longer care what happened to himself, but he would do anything for that dog. Sumo had loved Cole as much as a dog could, and while Hank logically knew it was irrational, he felt that the aging canine was the only one who could truly understand his loss. Besides, the smithy was not suitable for a child. Cole would need somewhere safe and familiar to live when he came home.

The story of the White Hart had become garbled in its telling. Some said that the Hart was a peace offering between Kamski the Trickster and the Faerie Queen when he had departed this world to go live in the Fae Realms. Others said that the Hart was stolen by Kamski from the Queen’s own herd and set free in Belle Frith to remind the world evermore of Kamski’s legend. Whatever the truth of the matter was, it was said that every year, for three days and three nights, the White Hart would appear in Belle Frith. Any who could catch the Hart would earn a wish from the Faerie Queen herself. Had he not spent the last fifty-three years in the shadow of Belle Frith, Hank would have dismissed this claim out of hand. However, Hank had seen many Hunts in his time, enough to be certain of two things. No one had successfully caught it in nearly three decades, but the Hart was real. And so was the wish.

Before the unthinkable had happened, Hank had always regarded the tradition of young men venturing into the forest with mixed feelings. On the one hand, it meant good business. The hunters needed their horses reshod, their swords sharpened, their armor mended and polished. On the other hand, one major benefit to living so far from town was spending his evenings in peace. This was not the case during the Hunt. Without fail, at least one caller per year would be hammering on his door, heedless of the hour, asking if Hank had seen the Hart or begging him to sell them supplies. They would often promise him a portion of the limitless riches the Hart would bestow or promise to make him a duke when they had ascended to become king. Few had ever gotten more than a brusque dismissal from Hank, and none had ever made good on the promise.

In fact, so mundane had the notion of the Hunt become over the years that it was not until midway through the first night of that first year’s Hunt that the idea to resurrect Cole struck Hank like a blow. He was already deep into the ale at that point, and had only vague memories of stumbling out of James’s Tavern, yelling “Wait for me! Wait for me!”. At some point he had fallen over a log in the dark, and was found in the morning passed out with a broken ankle to boot. Lucky not to have frozen to death, they said. Hank felt luck had very little to do with it.

The second year, Hank had made an honest attempt. Like countless others, he had ventured into the forest, faithful hunting dog in tow. (Sumo may have been getting older, but the dog still had a good nose.) Like those countless others, Hank had turned up emptyhanded. He had gone home at dawn of the third night and thrown the outfit that he had laid out for Cole into the fire.

This year, Hank knew better. Traditional hunting methods would not work. He did not have a team of bloodhounds, nor coin to hire other men to comb Belle Frith with him, nor even the strength and speed that he had once possessed as a young man. If he were to have any chance at all of capturing the White Hart, it would be through trickery and his knowledge of the forest. This was the reason that, while the other men dove headfirst into the forest at dawn when the Hunt began, Hank spent the entire first day damming up the creek that ran through Belle Frith, upstream just beyond the border of the forest. After a lifetime of trying not to offend the Fae, this act did make Hank mildly uneasy. Rules could be bent during the Hunt, but causing permanent damage to the forest would not be looked upon kindly. Hank justified it to himself as entirely reversible once the Hunt had concluded. He fervently hoped that he would not have to make this argument to any of the Fair Folk directly.

Without the water feeding it, the creek through Belle Frith had drained and dried in a matter of hours. It was the only source of water in the forest apart from a single small pond near the heart. It was here that Hank had hunkered down once the dam was built, concealing himself in a lean-to he had constructed some days in advance. Now all he could do was wait and hope that even a being as mystical as the White Hart needed water to survive.

It had been hours now, long into the second day. Hank hated to admit it, but he was starting to lose faith. His body was also starting to voice its limits, manual labor coupling with more than a full day and night without sleep to create a bone-deep weariness. But Hank would not give up so easily. This was his best plan. No matter what it took, Hank would hold his little boy in his arms again before this Hunt was over.

The snap of a twig drew Hank’s attention. His heartbeat picked up, but he did his best to tamp down on his excitement. This would not be the first false alarm. Careful not to make a sound, Hank peered out from his shelter. He almost fell over.

There it was. A stag, larger than most, wandered up to the pond. Its fur shone an ethereal white, seeming to light up the clearing with its presence. Most natural deer would have shed their antlers by now, but this one still had a full rack and they glowed faintly with serene blue Faelight. Hank had often heard tales of men chasing that glow far into the night, often to their demise in the darkness. For all that the Hart must have been running, the stag did not seem at all tired, nor particularly afraid. It drew near to the pond with a languid grace and dipped its head to drink deeply.

Hank took a breath to steady himself as he nocked the arrow. He would only have one shot at this, and the angle was not ideal, but changing position would be too risky. Hank exhaled slowly and took another breath, lining up his shot carefully before loosing his arrow with a faint twang.

The stag’s head snapped up, its antlers turning amber. Moving at an impossible speed, it leaped aside, and the arrow that should have buried itself in its chest instead lodged in its right flank. The White Hart backed away from the water, head whipping around to find the unseen attacker.

“Shit!” Hank cursed and burst out of his hiding place, already trying to string another arrow. The Hart saw him and then… Hank was not quite sure what happened. One moment the Hart was there, the next there was a flash of light, and in its place was a white wolf, its fangs bared and glowing blood red. Hank gaped and realized only a split second before it happened that the beast was poised to spring. He rolled out of the way just in time, and the wolf’s jaws snapped audibly on open air.

Hank tossed aside the bow and drew out his hunting knife instead. The wolf regained its footing and growled low in its throat, saliva dripping from its teeth that now pulsed amber. The arrow was still embedded in its hind leg. Luminescent blue blood trickled from the wound, cutting a track through the thick fur. Hunter and wolf circled each other, Hank’s gaze never wavering from the wolf’s huge, dark eyes. Just a little closer… closer…

Luck was, for once, on Hank’s side. The wolf’s growling gave way to a yelp of surprise as it was suddenly hoisted into the air by the snare that it had stepped into. It struggled for a moment, its great paws flailing but finding no purchase. There was another bright flash of light, then something tiny and white was falling.

“Oh no you don’t!” Hank dove toward the white thing, dropping his knife to catch it with both hands. A white mouse with a bright red tail ran hand over hand, but Hank seized it and held it so tightly he thought he might crush it. _Flash_ , the mouse had become an adder. It twisted to sink its fangs into Hank’s flesh. Hank grabbed it just behind its head and its jaws opened and shut uselessly, its crimson tongue lashing all around as it tried fruitlessly to bite him. _Flash_ , it was a giant boar, Hank’s grip on it broken. Hank slung one leg across its back and knotted his hand in its wiry bristles, then used all of his body weight to heave the beast off-balance and keep it from gaining its feet. “Give up,” he snarled, searching blindly with his free hand for his hunting knife, “because I sure as hell won’t.” The boar twisted underneath him, letting out an almost piteous squeal. Hank just gritted his teeth. “I’d… rather… die!”

Hank’s fingertips brushed the hilt of the knife. He grabbed it, just as there was yet another blinding flash. When his vision cleared, Hank found himself pinning down possibly the most beautiful young man he had ever seen. His skin was a creamy pale, smattered with freckles, the hair that he still gripped now a soft, curly brow. He looked at Hank with huge, scared eyes, a ring at his temple blaring red. Fae-marked, just like the woman who had killed Cole. Hank bared his teeth and pressed his hunting knife to the young man’s throat. “Give up,” he growled again.

The young man’s chest heaved as he stared up at Hank, his pink lips slightly parted. “I cede,” he said, and the voice that Hank had been expecting to be high and sweet was instead low with the faintest rasp. “By the laws of the Hunt, you have captured me. You are entitled to your wish, your heart’s deepest desire.” With this pronouncement, the man closed his dark eyes and laid back.

Minutes ticked by. Gradually, Hank regained his breath, but still nothing happened. He did not dare move the blade away from the young man’s throat in case this was a trick. “Hey,” he said at last, jerking the young man’s head with the hand still fisted in his hair. “What happens now? Where is she?”

Brown eyes blinked open. A faint hint of a crease formed between the man’s brows. “Of whom do you speak?”

“You know, the Faerie Queen. Your mistress or whatever.” Hank was too impatient to bother with the usual niceties. “She’s supposed to come here and give me my wish.”

“Her Majesty does not grant wishes personally.” Perhaps it was Hank’s imagination, but there seemed to be a touch of pride in the Hart-turned-man’s voice. “That is my role to fulfill.”

“Fine, then you do it. Give me back my son.” Against his better judgement, Hank released him, allowing him room to work whatever magicks may be needed to resurrect Cole, but kept his knife pointed toward him in case the Hart tried to escape.

The crease between the man’s brows grew into a deep furrow, and he cocked his head to the side in a way that reminded Hank unpleasantly of Cole. “Is your son missing? Or was he perhaps exchanged for a Changeling?”

“No. He’s…” Hank swallowed hard and forced the words out so that they may no longer be true. “He died. Three years ago. His name is Cole. I can take you to his grave, if that would help you cast your spell or whatever. Just tell me what I need to do.”

“Oh,” the Hart breathed, the light at his temple pulsing yellow. “I am afraid you are mistaken on two counts. I myself possess no magic to grant your wish. To receive your wish, you must cut out my heart and hold it between your hands. Her Majesty’s magic will do the rest.”

Hank’s stomach lurched. When he thought it just a stag, cutting out the White Hart’s heart would have posed him no issue. But speaking to him in this form, knowing that the Hart would be aware of what was happening and why… _He’s Fae,_ Hank reminded himself. _Just like the one who is responsible for all of this. He’s not a person, he’s just wearing a person’s face._ For Cole, he would do it. To have his boy back, Hank would do anything, even if it felt so much like murder. Hank was drawing breath to ask if the Hart would mind taking a different form while Hank cut out his heart when the Hart brought his world crashing down around his ears.

“Secondly, I am afraid that your wish is impossible. You will have to choose another.”

Hank gaped stupidly. “What? No. No, you said I was entitled to my heart’s desire. I want my son back. That’s my wish.”

“I’m sorry,” the Hart said, his voice even and devoid of sympathy, “but not even the magic of the Faerie Queen can draw a soul back from the void. Your son is gone.”

All the strength left Hank at once. The knife dropped from his hand, his body crumpling in on itself like a marionette that had had its strings cut. “No… No, no, this can’t be happening…” Hank’s head was spinning, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps. Through the darkest days, the thought that he would one day win Cole back had been all that had kept him going. Without that… A yawning pit of despair opened in his chest, threatening to drag everything down in with it.

The White Hart’s voice seemed to come from a very long way away. “There must be something else that you want.”

“No…” Hank heard himself whisper. “All I want is my son…”

“Perhaps you could wish for a new son.”

Hank snapped abruptly back to reality. For a split second, he thought about picking up his knife and burying it in the man’s chest. Instead he grabbed him by the throat and slammed him hard into the muddy ground. “Fuck you!” he snarled, taking a grim satisfaction as he watched the Hart choke and scrabble at his hand. “You don’t ever, ever talk about my son that way! You think I could replace him, you think I could…”

Bile rose in Hank’s throat. He let the Hart go, turning aside to empty the contents of his stomach. It was over. It was all over. Cole was would never come back. Hank would never get to see his boy again, never get to tell him stories or draw him a bath or chastise him for not doing his chores. His son would never grow up, never fall in love, never move away and start a family of his own or inherit the cottage beside Belle Frith. He would be forever frozen at six years old, and there was nothing, not Hank, not the Faerie Queen, not God himself could do to change that.

Numbly, Hank staggered to his feet, turning away from the young man still sprawled on the ground. He had enough presence of mind to avoid the other snares and to retrieve his discarded weapons, but everything else was lost in a fog of grief.

“What about me?” The Hart’s forlorn voice drifted over his shoulder. “You caught me. I belong to you. What should I do?”

Hank paused for only a moment, not bothering to turn around to look at the White Hart, the target of his obsession for three years. “I don’t care,” he said simply, and trudged away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not the greatest first impression for either of them... nowhere to go from here but up! 
> 
> Thanks for reading! Kudos and comments keep my spirit alive.


	3. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Hart meets a dog. Hank makes a decision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ooooh boy. You may notice that the chapter count has gone up. I split this chapter into two because real life got in the way. (Applying for new jobs to get the heck out of this one!) Hope this is enough to tide you guys over.
> 
> Fair warning, though, this chapter goes to some dark places. TW suicide attempt

The Hart followed his captor. What else was he to do? All his life, the Hart had prepared for the eventuality of being caught and killed by a human. Never in his wildest imaginings had he supposed that he would be caught by someone who _did not want him_. The Hart had received no instructions about what to do in this scenario, so he followed, because it was all he could think to do.

But oh, it hurt. His wound throbbed with every step that he took, fresh blood still slipping down his thigh and leaving a glittering blue trail in his wake. The Hart had stopped only briefly to snap off the arrow shaft, but the arrowhead was still embedded in his flesh, and the wound would not close until he had removed it.

Logically, the Hart knew the discomfort was necessary. He had been designed to be the perfect quarry, so the ability to feel as a real creature might had been added to the basic simulacra template. “It’s not very sportsmanlike to be hunting something that cannot feel pain,” Elijah had explained on the day the Hart first awakened. “Still, we cannot have you felled by a lucky arrow either. If you can be clever, if you can overcome your pain and escape without capture, then your wounds will heal, and the Hunt may continue.” Ordinarily the Hart understood the differences that set him apart from the other simulacra were a sign of his superiority. He had to admit he found his current situation very… inconvenient. Doubly so in this form.

The pain in his feet was a much less pressing concern, only becoming noticeable when he stepped on a particularly sharp stick or rock. Those cuts would heal almost instantly before another step would slice them open again. Until now, the Hart had only used this form in the Mortal Realm to untie knots, treat wounds, or other instances that needed precision work. He had chosen this form in their fight in a last-ditch attempt to manipulate the human, perhaps cause the human to drop his guard and turn his weapon back on him. The instant he had looked into those stormy blue eyes, the Hart had known he was doomed. The determination that burned there could not be bartered with or tricked. The Hart stood no chance. For the first and only time, the Hart had surrendered to an enemy and had even tried to be helpful when the hunter seemed to be struggling with his wish. Now somehow he had found himself in the position of chasing the man destined to end his existence. The Hart’s chest tightened and he bowed his head.

They had reached the edge of the forest, and the grey-haired human continued walking. The Hart stopped short just within the trees. He watched as the human stumped up a beaten dirt path leading to a stone cottage with a thatched roof, only a few hundred meters outside the bounds of Belle Frith. The building was in an obvious state of disrepair. Its roof needed patching and crawling vines seemed intent on retaking the house as part of nature. The human stopped in front of the door and fumbled with something for a moment, then disappeared inside, leaving the door ajar.

The Hart dithered on the edge of the woods, eyeing the half-opened door. It was possible that his captor knew that the Hart had followed him and that the door was an invitation. In that case, the Hart’s duty would clearly be to follow… but the Hart had never, not once left Belle Frith while he was in the Mortal Realm. He was not afraid, for it was impossible for simulacra to feel fear, but the Hart did feel a slight flutter in his belly as he took his first tentative steps outside of the trees.

The Hart waited. Queen Amanda appear to drag him back to the Fae Realm. The ground beneath him did not burst into flames. In fact, all that happened was the soft grass allowed the Hart’s abused feet to fully heal. Emboldened, the Hart limped his way up the path. He reached out his hand to push the door open further…

… and was immediately met with a horrifying sight.

A great hulking beast blocked the doorway. The Hart froze, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up. A _dog_ was sidling out of the house, its gaze fixed on him.

The Hart stumbled backwards, tripping over his human legs and landing hard on his wounded haunch. He gave a cry of mixed pain and terror, throwing up his arms to shield himself uselessly and squeezing his eyes shut. At any moment he would feel the teeth sink into his flesh, rending him into pieces.

The dog stopped. The Hart remained immobile. What was going on? Was it waiting for the hunter’s command to tear out his throat? He shook like a leaf as he felt the dog draw closer, close enough for the Hart to feel its humid breath on his skin as it snuffled at him. Its cold nose touched his arm. The Hart yanked his arm back, his eyes snapping open to stare at the great, slobbering thing.

The dog, which had been gazing at him intently, began to wag its tail when it noticed him looking back. The Hart dared not twitch so much as an eyelash. The tail gradually stopped wagging and the dog sat down, whining softly. It nosed at his arm again, this time quite insistently pushing its head under the Hart’s arm and forcing his hand on top of its head. The Hart blinked and pulled his hand away. Again, the dog whined, its great brown eyes turning huge and sad. Hastily the Hart replaced his hand. “Is this what you want?” he asked.

The dog thumped its tail at him. Eager to keep the beast placated, the Hart stroked its fur. It sighed happily and leaned against him. For a vicious creature that would tear him apart as soon as look at him, the Hart had to admit the dog was very soft.

“Oh, what the fuck?” an angry voice came. “Sumo, get away from him.”

The dog – Sumo, the Hart supposed – obediently trotted over to his master. The Hart watched him go with an odd mixture of relief and disappointment. Sumo nosed at the human’s hand. The older man answered the dog with an absentminded scratch behind the ears, glowering down all the while at the Hart. “When I said I didn’t care what you did, that didn’t mean follow me home. That meant fuck off. Let someone else catch you.”

The Hart decided that he had had enough of looking up as the human loomed above him. Gingerly on his damaged leg, the Hart got to his feet to look his captor in the eye. “I am afraid that would be impossible,” he said firmly.

“What, the fucking off part or the someone else catching you?”

“Someone else catching me.” Despite the weight in his stomach that had settled there when he had first admitted defeat, the Hart felt a prickle of impatience. “You have already claimed me. The magic that is in me belongs solely to you until the conclusion of this year’s Hunt. Even if another hunter did prove successful, I could not grant them any boon. I suppose I could… leave this area, if you desired.” He refused to repeat back the man’s vulgarities. “However, I do not believe that would be very conducive to fulfilling my purpose.”

"Well, here’s the thing.” The man turned away from him and started gathering wood from a pile stacked high on the side of the house into his arms haphazardly. “I don’t care about your purpose. Like, not even a little bit. Go find someone who does. And if you can’t do that, then at least do me a favor and get off my doorstep. Sumo, come here.”

The dog stopped nosing around a nearby bush and lifted his leg to urinate, then bounded after his master.

“But-” the Hart began again, but the human had already shouldered his way inside and kicked the door shut in the Hart’s face.

* * *

Hank’s decision to die came easier than he had anticipated. He had kicked around the idea in the years since Cole’s death, an idle thought when he was drunk enough to consider acting on it but not so far gone that he could not summon up the brain power to do so. This was one of those nights.

Hank had been far too cold and exhausted to think about much of anything when he got home beyond starting a fire and collapsing into bed. Even his bone-deep weariness could not stave off the nightmares, however. Hank had woken after a few hours trembling all over with visions of his son’s shattered body and a woman’s expressionless face fading slowly from his mind’s eye. Despite his desire to do nothing but lie down and never get up again, sleep was out of the question after that.

Hank had hauled himself out of bed and fixed some food for Sumo. For him, he tapped into the barrel of ale, hoping to drink until his sorrow was wrapped up in soft cotton. But tonight, no matter how much he drank, the sharp edges would not leave him, because Cole would never come back. Which was how Hank had come to the conclusion that now was the time to die.

If he had had any sense at all, Hank would have gathered some poisonous mushrooms on the way home and been done with it. Idiot. It was too dark to find them now, and the idea of living in this world where Cole was not for even a few hours more currently seemed too painful to bear. So, no poison. Cutting his throat would hurt too much and the smell of blood would be alarming to Sumo. Drowning did not appeal, and poetic though it might be, throwing himself into the ravine where Cole died had every chance of leaving him laying at the bottom with all the bones in his body broken but still alive. Hanging, then, seemed the obvious choice, if only he could remember how to tie a damn noose. Hank looped the rope back on itself and twisted the tail end around, but somehow it kept falling apart in his hands. He shook his head, wishing that he had forgone the last few pints. When he fumbled the knot again and dropped it, Hank threw the rope down on the table with a curse.

Sumo raised his head at the noise. Normally, the dog would be hogging the bed in Hank’s absence and hoping that Hank did not kick him off. Right now the dog was huddled close to the hearth, drawing what warmth he could from the dying embers of the fire. Hank felt a pang of remorse at the thought of leaving the dog alone. “I’m sorry,” he slurred, knowing the dog could not understand but feeling compelled to say so. “I’ll leave the door cracked when I leave so you can get out. Know you’re old‘n all, but I bet you can still catch a rabbit or two, and if you head into town I’m sure Jeffery would take care of you. He knows you’re a good boy.” Hank suddenly found himself fighting back a sob. “Y’re such a good boy, Sumo.”

Sumo thumped his tail happily at the sound of his name, then he yawned hugely and laid his great head back down. _He’ll be fine_ , Hank told himself, trying to shut up his yammering conscience. _It’ll be a week at most before someone comes looking. Sumo can make it a week._ Hank just hoped that it was cold enough outside that his corpse would not smell too badly by the time they got there. Speaking of which…

Hank picked up the rope again and this time tied a simple strangle-snare. Even as out of it as he was, he had used this knot so many times to catch game over the years that his fingers moved effortlessly. Nothing fancy, nothing special. A fitting end to a thoroughly mediocre life. Satisfied, Hank slung the rope over his shoulder and got to his feet, swaying slightly as he collected the chair and the lantern.

It had started snowing sometime in the past few hours, tiny flakes that were sure to melt by morning but for rendered the world still and silent as they floated down. Hank’s attention was immediately drawn to a figure in white rising to its feet from the snow-dusted grass. Hank lifted the lantern higher to illuminate its perfectly sculpted features. For half a hazy moment, Hank honestly believed that an angel had come to guide him to heaven to reunite with his son. Then he noticed the Fae mark and the mud still caked to its clothing and Hank remembered what he was looking at. He scowled and turned his back on the Hart.

“What are you doing, human?” the Hart asked as Hank walked around to the back of his house. Hank ignored him.

He had laid Cole to rest a few hundred yards from the house, under the giant oak tree that had been the boy’s favorite place to play. Hank placed the chair down beneath his chosen branch and rested the lantern on top. He knelt clumsily to brush away some of the leaves that the tree had wept onto Cole’s grave. “Papa’s coming, baby,” he muttered. “Papa’ll be with you in a second, okay?” Hank tried to get up and stumbled. He leaned against the tree for support, cursing under his breath.

“What are you doing, human?” the Hart’s voice repeated, more sharply this time and much closer. Hank looked up and met the young man’s gaze. He watched the Hart’s deep brown eyes dart between Hank, the rope over Hank’s shoulder, the grave, and finally the tree. His eyes widened and the light at his temple flickered yellow. “I do not think you should be doing this.”

“Shudda fuck up,” Hank growled. “Tol’ you to go away. This is none of your business.”

The Hart took a few steps in his direction, hands out as though to placate a dangerous animal – and wasn’t _that_ ironic? Hank bit back the urge to laugh at the absurdity of it all. “Granting your wish is my purpose. I cannot do that if you… if…” The Hart bit his lip and glanced back at the tree.

“Yeah, well, tough shit.” Hank could see every snowflake that had settled in the Hart’s hair and clinging to his long, dark lashes. Truly, it wasn’t fair that he was so damn handsome. Hank grunted and turned away to clamber unsteadily onto the chair.

“I think you should get down and come inside with me,” Hank heard the Hart say. “We can talk about this.” A slight pause, then the Hart added, “Please.”

“Will you give it a rest? I don’t need’yr… your _pity,_ ” Hank spat.

A slightly longer pause this time. “I am not acting out of pity,” the Hart answered at last. “I do not feel such emotions.”

A derisive snort burst out of Hank, and he paused in tying the rope to the tree to shoot a venomous scowl over his shoulder. “Yeah I kind of fucking gathered that when you suggested that I _replace my son_.” His eyes settled on the Fae mark, still a steady yellow on the Hart’s pale skin. “You’re jus’ like her. There’s nothing in you. Just a pretty lie to get humans to let down their guard s’you can play your sick fucking games.” Hank returned his attention to the rope. “’M done playing.”

There was silence for so long this time that Hank thought that the Hart might have left. Hank focused his attention on tying the knot in the dim light. When the Hart spoke again, his tone had changed – no longer soft and soothing, but crisply informative. “I feel obligated to tell you that that rope is unlikely to bear your weight.”

Hank took a deep breath, trying to block out the Hart’s words. It was true that he had wasted all of his sturdier rope setting traps for the Hart. But the last thing Hank needed right now was doubts. “Shut up,” he whispered.

“Even if you do successfully hang yourself,” the Hart continued, “from that angle you are unlikely to break your neck. You would suffer for a long time before succumbing to unconsciousness.”

Icy veins of uncertainty were crawling through Hank’s chest. If the Hart kept talking, Hank knew that his cowardice would win again. He spun around to glare at him, lips curled back into a snarl. “I told you to shut-”

Hank’s foot slipped on the chair. Reflexively, he grabbed at the rope to steady himself. As the Hart had predicted, the rope snapped, and Hank fell bodily to the ground.

“GodDAMMIT!” Hank howled, beating his fists against the earth like a child. He was so useless, he couldn’t even die properly. “Dammit…” Defeated, Hank let himself go limp and closed his eyes, hoping that the universe would grant his wish to never open them again.

A warm hand pressed itself against his shoulder. “It is too cold for humans.” The gentleness had returned to the Hart’s tone. “Let me take you inside.”

Hank had no energy left to fight as the Hart hauled him up with surprising strength. He allowed himself to be guided back into the house, and the next thing he knew, the Hart was setting him down on his bed. He heard the Hart moving around the room, the door opening and closing, even a quiet “Excuse me, Sumo,” before the thump of another log being added to the fire.

Hank was hovering on the edges of unconsciousness when he felt the fingertips brushing hesitantly against his hair. He flinched away slightly and managed to choke out “Don’t-” before the lump in his throat grew too big to speak. Hank was not even certain what he was trying to say. _Don’t touch me_ , he wanted to believe, but it could just have easily been _don’t stop,_ or even _don’t leave me alone_.

Fortunately or unfortunately, the Hart did not listen to Hank’s aborted command. The hand returned, smoothing Hank’s hair back from his forehead. Much to his shame, Hank’s eyes stung with unshed tears. How long had it been since someone had touched him like this? With such kindness, with such care? Hank turned his head, pressing his face into the straw mattress so that the Hart would not see his pathetic weeping at a simple touch. If the Hart noticed Hank sniffling or the silent sobs that racked his frame, he did not comment. He simply stayed by his side, stroking the older man’s hair in a gentle, even rhythm until dreamless sleep came for Hank at last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, enough of that angsty shit. Time to get to them becoming friends, hmm? And give Hank some traits beyond Sad and Drunk. (I swear there is more to him, he's just having a hard time right now.)
> 
> As always, kudos and comments are what give me life. See you guys next week!


	4. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hank has a hangover. The Hart explains the nature of simulacra.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Christ on a cracker, this one was a struggle to write! The ending might be a little rough because I wanted to be sure to get this up today, so I may go back and do a little polishing later. Shoutout to HankCon Haven, who have been super welcoming and awesome, and particularly to Lady Drace who gave me a bit of help with this chapter! Lots of exposition incoming.

Hank’s first thought upon waking was that he now knew what it felt like to be his anvil. Someone was taking his hammer to the inside of his skull and pounding out a steady rhythm. The pain only intensified as he sat up and his stomach rolled ominously. An acrid stench told him that he had already thrown up at least once. Hank groaned and pressed his thumb and forefinger into his eyes, trying to quell the throbbing.

“Alright, Sumo, I’m up. Les’ go outside.” No dog answered his call. “Sumo?” Hank cracked his eyes open and peered around the dim room.

The light that trickled in from between the slats in the shutters told him that it was past mid-morning. The fire had died completely in the night, but he could still see well enough to make out the shape of his oversized shaggy dog near the hearth. Sumo was snoring softly, sprawled out in the lap of a sleeping young man in a white shift and with a steady blue ring glowing at his temple.

“Oh. Right.”

Memories began slowly to trickle back, making Hank’s face burn with shame. Despite his desire to roll over and go back to sleep, Hank hauled himself out bed. He winced as his feet touched the cold stone floor and realized for the first time that the Hart must have taken off his boots. A quick glance around showed other evidence of the Hart’s presence. Both chairs were back inside now, as was the lantern. Hank had also evidently been sick into the chamber pot rather than all over the floor, something he was quite sure he would not have had the presence of mind to do unaided.

As quietly as he could, Hank crept over to where the faerie slept. The Hart looked so different like this, with his inquisitive brown eyes shut and his face in peaceful repose. He looked so… innocent, almost. A far cry from the creature that had tried to rip his throat out as a wolf yesterday. The Hart’s chest rose and fell evenly, and his eyes flickered beneath their long-lashed lids as though he was dreaming. Did faeries even dream? Hank had no idea.

Now that he was taking the time to actually consider all of this, the whole situation was just too weird. Hank had been prepared for a dumb animal or a cunning Fae, not for… whatever this was. The Hart was a mess of contradictions – first fighting tooth and nail to keep Hank from capturing him, then following Hank home. The thing openly admitted not to having human emotions, but at the same time, the Hart had seemed genuinely distressed at Hank’s behavior, and had even tried to comfort Hank in his own clumsy way.

Yeah, Hank was way too hungover for this shit.

“Hey,” he grunted, voice still rough with sleep. “Kid. Wake up.”

The Hart’s eyes snapped open, instantly and eerily alert. Gone was the illusion of innocence. Those sharp eyes drank in everything. “You’re awake,” he remarked. “I apologize, I had not intended to fall asleep, but Sumo insisted…” The Hart nudged the dog to wake him. The dog yawned but did not otherwise move. The Hart prodded him again, this time more insistently. With a grumble, Sumo reluctantly stood, shook himself, and trotted over to pester Hank for attention. The Hart started to clamber to his feet. “I took him out with me to relieve himself earlier, but I was not sure if he needed to eat. I -” The Hart broke off as his legs collapsed under him, and he slid gracelessly down the wall.

“You okay?” Hank asked without thinking, forgetting momentarily that the Hart was an unwelcome guest.

“My legs.” The faerie’s long-fingered hands rubbed at his thigh urgently, his eyes huge and a touch of panic creeping into his voice. Hank’s heart sped up. Was this some strange Fae illness? His injury from yesterday? “My legs are all wrong. They feel… invisible.”

Hank let out a startled bark of laughter. “Yeah, that’ll happen when you let a huge dog sleep on you. Just stretch them out and give it a minute.”

The Hart nodded once and uncurled his long legs. “Oh,” he said after a few moments, his expression twisting from alarm to displeasure. “Oh that feels… extremely unpleasant.”

“Yep, pins and needles do suck,” Hank agreed absently, turning away to pick up clay pitcher on the table. He was quite sure that it had been filled with ale last night, and he had been looking to get a little hair of the dog to take the edge off his hangover, but a quick sniff told him that the liquid that sloshed inside of it was water. “Where did you get this?”

Out of the corner of his eye, Hank watched the Hart struggle to his feet, using the wall for support. The faerie righted himself and smoothed the wrinkles out of his frock - an especially useless gesture, given that it and he were still covered with dried mud. “I collected some snow before it melted. Why?”

Hank shrugged. “Just wanted to make sure.” Deciding melted snow was probably clean enough to drink and desperate to get the foul taste out of his mouth, Hank tipped up the pitcher to drink a mouthful directly. As he lowered it, he caught a brief flash of… disgust? disapproval? on the Hart’s face. The faerie said nothing, but did pointedly go over to the cupboard to retrieve a cup and place it on the table.

Hank drank from the pitcher again just to piss him off.

“You should eat something. I apologize for the meager offering, but this is all that I could find.” The Hart deposited half a stale loaf of bread and a chunk of hard cheese in the trencher on the middle of the table, then looked at Hank expectantly.

“Uh.” Hank stared at the Hart, nonplussed. “No offense, but what the fuck is wrong with you?”

The Hart blinked at him, his placid expression twitching ever so slightly and the Faelight at his temple flickering yellow. “I assure you, nothing is wrong with me. I have fully recovered from my injuries from yesterday and am at your disposal to grant your wish.”

“Right. I fucking shot you yesterday. Now you’re, what, in my house, going through my shit, offering me my own food. Why are you doing this?”

“Because you need to eat,” the Hart said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

The last thing Hank felt like doing was eating. His stomach was a queasy knot. He had a faerie in his house.

Hank also had not eaten a real meal in more than two days, and the longer he stood, the weaker his knees felt. He would have preferred to eat something else just to spite the Hart, but the faerie was correct in his assessment – the bread and cheese was currently the sum total of all the food in the house that did not require preparation. Heaving a defeated sigh, Hank plopped himself down at the table and reached for the pitcher.

“Please, allow me –” the Hart began, reaching to intercept.

Hank knocked his hand away and poured the water himself. “Stop acting like you’re my servant or something.”

“Right. I apologize.” The Hart’s hands fluttered away nervously, his Fae mark an anxious yellow as he stared down at the table.

“What is your problem?” Hank snapped irritably.

“I… I am uncertain what you wish of me, human,” the Hart admitted quietly.

 _I want you to get the fuck out of my house and never come back_ , was Hank’s first thought, and yesterday he would have said it point-blank. But after last night, something in Hank had… shifted. So instead, he just sighed and kicked the other chair away from the table to offer the faerie a seat. “Mostly what I want is for you to stop hovering.”

The faerie gazed at him for a moment before perching himself in the chair, his posture ramrod straight and the Faelight fading slowly back to blue. Hank took a sip of water, then picked up the bread and tore it in roughly half. He tossed the larger chunk to Sumo. The dog wolfed down the bread in two bites and stared up at Hank, drooling.

Belatedly, Hank remembered that the Hart had referred to him as “human” again. “Can you stop calling me that?” Hank groused. “It’s getting on my nerves.”

The Hart cocked his head to the side. The habit was, thankfully, starting to remind Hank less and less of Cole. His son would tilt his head like that whenever he was trying to get what he wanted, a six-year-old’s early attempt at manipulation (and damn if it hadn’t worked every time). The Hart, on the other hand, looked more like Sumo confronted with a weird noise - confused but trying to understand. “Why does being called a human bother you? You _are_ a human.”

“ _I know_ that I’m a human. How would you like me following you around, calling you ‘faerie’ all the time?”

While the question had been meant as rhetorical, the Hart seemed to seriously consider. “I do not suppose I would mind,” he said at last, “though it would be an inaccurate description. I am not a faerie.” Hank rolled his eyes. Faerie was a catch-all term to describe many different types of magical creatures, though they were also a race of their own. Leave it to this pedantic little shit to be a stickler for specificity.

“If I should not call you human, how would you prefer me to address you?” the Hart added after a brief pause. “I have no other name by which to call you.”

Hank was immediately on edge. Names were tricky things when it came to the Good Folk. Giving your name to the wrong faerie was a death sentence – or worse, if the stories were to be believed. The smart thing to do would be to give no answer at all.

Then again… Hank had never been very good at doing the smart thing. It felt strange to ignore such an earnest question from a creature that had already seen him so low. Also, being called "human" truly was starting to annoy him.

“Call me Hank,” he answered, choosing his words with care. He had not “given” the Hart his name, merely told him what name he preferred. Even if no one had called him “Henry” since he was a boy, “Hank” was still technically a nickname. Hank should be safe. Theoretically.

“Hank,” echoed the Hart, as if tasting the name. “Got it.”

“Great,” Hank said, immediately regretting his decision. He stuffed too much bread into his mouth to give himself an excuse to not talk.

This proved to be a mistake. The Hart seemed completely content to just sit there, watching Hank eat with such intensity that Hank felt like he was going to crawl out of his skin. Unable to bear the silence any longer, Hank forced down the food and fixed the Hart with what he hoped was an intimidating glare. “What?” he grouched. “Do I have something on my face?”

“Traces of vomit, and a few crumbs,” the Hart said at once. “Why do you ask?”

“Never mind,” Hank muttered, scrubbing a hand over his beard. He took a bite of the cheese next. His stomach, warming to its task, roared for more.

“I don’t have a name,” the Hart suddenly piped up. “So you may call me whatever you wish. If you were wondering.”

“I wasn’t.” Hank had been.

“I see.” Another brief lull in the conversation. “After you have finished with your meal, shall we proceed with your removal of my heart, or would you like to wait until the afternoon when it is warmer outside?”

Hank nearly choked on his food and needed to gulp water to wash it down. “Jesus,” he wheezed at last. “I’m fucking eating. And anyway, I already told you, I don’t want it. Get that through your faerie head.”

“You have mentioned this, yes, but as I have already told you, you have claimed me and I can give the wish to no other. Also, I am not a faerie.”

Hank gave a huff of annoyance. “Brownie. Leprechaun. Whatever.” He waved a disinterested hand.

“I am none of those things. I am a simulacrum.”

This drew Hank up short. He had thought himself at least casually versed with all breeds of the Fair Folk. “A what?”

“Oh, pardon me. I said I am a simulacrum.” The Hart raised his voice and overenunciated the words.

“I heard you, asshole. Now what the hell is a simu-whatever?”

The Hart stared at him blankly. “Oh,” he said at last. “I did not realize that you were unfamiliar with my kind." His Fae mark pulsed yellow twice before flipping back to blue. “Simulacra are magical beings created to serve faekind. The first of us were created approximately three hundred years ago by Elijah Kamski. They -”

“Hang on, hang on.” Hank cut across him. “Elijah Kamski? Like, Kamski-the-trickster, Kamski?”

The faerie – the simulacrum, Hank reminded himself – frowned slightly. “I fear you must be mistaking him with someone else. Elijah Kamski was a human who earned favor with the Queen by creating the first of my kind, primarily of clockwork. He was welcomed into the Fae Realm and now lives there –”

“Yeah, Kamski,” interrupted Hank again. “That’s him. A human who is now immortal and lives in the Fae Realms. Planted all of Belle Frith with his bare hands, won the heart of the Faerie Queen… Hell, they say he stole the White Hart to begin with.”

The Hart’s frown deepened. “No,” he said firmly. “I am sure that you must be mistaken. Elijah and Queen Amanda are close confidants, but no more. I cannot be certain that he did not plant Belle Frith, but I do not believe that is true. As for stealing the White Hart…” The Hart let out a little snort and shook his head. “Why would he need to steal what he created?”

“What, Kamski made you?” Hank could not keep the surprise out of his voice. He had heard stories of Kamski the trickster since he was a boy.

"Myself, every iteration of White Hart before me, and every simulacrum in existence.”

Hank let out a low whistle. “Wow. Busy guy.” Something about the Hart’s statement niggled at the back of Hank’s mind. “Wait, every iteration. So it’s not the same one every year? I mean, there are other Harts than you?”

“No,” the Hart said smoothly. “I am the only one of my kind. A Hart is only replaced when they are captured, and each iteration is an improvement on the last. I am the most advanced simulacrum ever created.” Once again, there was the barest touch of pride in the Hart’s voice. Hank even thought he might detect a trace of a smile.

”When a Hart is captured... killed, you mean.”

Yellow Faelight. The ghost of a smile disappeared. “You cannot kill what was never alive,” the Hart said at last. “The past White Harts were destroyed to fulfill their purpose. If that is what is stopping you from making your wish, you need not concern yourself. I will be replaced with a new Hart during the next Hunt.”

Hank quite abruptly remembered who – and what – he was talking to. His curiosity instantly evaporated. This thing, this _simulacrum_ , was exactly like the woman who had watched and done nothing as his boy fell to his death. This one might be better at pretending to have emotions, but Hank could not forget that none of it was real. He stood up, thankfully this time a bit steadier on his feet.

“… Hank?” The Hart’s voice had grown softer, perhaps sensing the change in Hank’s mood.

God, he should never have told this thing his name. Just hearing him say it made Hank’s stomach lurch. “Yeah?” Hank growled.

“I wanted to apologize for my suggestion yesterday. I had intended to be helpful. I can understand how it came across poorly. I’m sorry.”

“Are you?” Hank asked quietly, his hands reflexively clenching into fists.

“Pardon me?”

“Are you sorry?” Hank fixed the Hart with an icy stare. His temper was leaping in his chest, trying its best to explode out of him. Hank held onto it with both hands. “I’ll tell you right fucking now, apologies don’t mean shit unless you’re actually sorry. That means knowing what you’re apologizing for, too.”

The Hart was silent. Hank’s fury bubbled closer to the surface with every passing millisecond. Any moment now it would spill over. Then the Hart spoke.

“I had intended my suggestion to be helpful,” the simulacrum reiterated, looking up at Hank with those huge, dark eyes. “I knew that I could not grant the wish that you truly desired, and I thought that a new child would be the next best option. Where I come from, one thing is easily interchangeable for another.” This was not a surprise to Hank. Faeries were known for their casual use, abuse, and discarding of humans. “I realize now that I was mistaken. Last night, I… I understood that if you were to die, no power in this world could bring you back. I found that thought…” The Faelight on his brow flickered for just an instant to red. “It would not be conducive to fulfilling my purpose,” the Hart said at length.

Hank narrowed his eyes. “Right. Your purpose. That’s what you care about.”

“It’s what I was made for,” the Hart murmured.

“And what is this purpose? Exactly?” Hank pressed.

“My purpose is… more complicated than most simulacra. I am meant to entertain the humans and the Fae as quarry in the Hunt or company at Court. I am to provide a rousing chase and ensure that I am never captured by an unworthy opponent. And when I am caught, my purpose is to –”

“To die,” Hank interjected.

“To instruct the champion of the hunt how to utilize his wish and provide guidance about his wish if necessary,” corrected the Hart. “And then, yes, my purpose would be to give up my heart so that the promise of the Hunt may be fulfilled.”

And goddamn, if that wasn’t the most depressing thing Hank had ever heard in his life.

Hank felt a twinge of pity, followed by an instant rush of guilt. _Your son! They killed your son!_ his conscience howled at him. He needed to get out of here. This was all becoming too much. “Look, I’ve got to go,” he said, casting around for an excuse to leave. “There’s no food here, and anyway, I’ve got to unblock the creek or your queen will have my head.”

The Hart’s head jerked up. “You blocked up the creek? That is why there was no water?”

“Er. Well, yeah.” Hank felt his neck heat under the sudden admiration sparkling in the Hart’s eyes. “What, did you think I picked that spot on accident?”

“Ah, well…”

“Huh. Don’t think much of human intelligence, do you?”

“That’s not true!” protested the Hart, his tone betraying that that was _precisely_ true. “In any case, if you are prepared, then we should go.”

“‘We’?” Hank repeated with more than a little panic. “Oh, no, you stay put.”

“I am yours until you make your wish, or until the Hunt concludes.” The Hart crossed his arms over his chest and raised his chin. “Where you go, I will follow.”

“I’m coming right back when I’m done. Besides which… besides…” Hank’s eyes lit on the mud crusted on the Hart’s arms. “Don’t you want to wash that off?” he blurted out. “You’re filthy.”

The change in the Hart’s countenance was slight, but Hank caught it. An almost imperceptible narrowing of the eyes, a downward twitch at the corners of his lips. The Hart was definitely a vain little thing. "I apologize if my cleanliness is not up to your usual standards," he said blithely. "You see, someone held me down in the mud."

Hank choked out a chuckle that he did his best to turn into a cough. “Yeah, sorry about that.”

“Are you?” the Hart asked, tilting his head slightly.

Hank paused. “I’m not sure,” he admitted at last. “Do you want to clean up, or not?”

“Yes,” the Hart answered after a pause. “I believe that this would be acceptable.”

* * *

It had taken some time to collect the water from the well near Hank’s little cottage, to build the fire, and to show the Hart how to heat the water. Hank had practically fled the moment that the Hart had shed his sullied clothing, his face a burning scarlet. Humans could be so strange about nudity, the Hart thought to himself as he scrubbed himself in front of the wash basin.

Then again, Hank was strange in many ways. His moods changed so quickly, but he was so unlike the flighty Fae to whom the Hart was accustomed. His feelings seemed to run deeper, more powerful. The Hart could scarcely imagine what it must be like to experience such emotions and not be swept away by them all the time. The Hart was especially perplexed by the man’s intensity about his son. The Hart had heard of things like human love or sorrow great enough to drive one to madness, but never seen it in person. The Hart did not understand.

He wanted to understand.

But, as Elijah said, it was pointless for simulacra to spend their time ruminating on things that would always be beyond their ken. The Hart could not feel such things, thus could never fully comprehend them. Better, he decided, to spend his time meditating on how he could best fulfill his purpose. As the Hart waited for his shift to dry, he busied himself ferreting around for parchment, ink, and quill.

Afternoon crept toward evening. The Hart had long since donned his frock again and now paced around the one-room cottage anxiously. Sumo observed from his spot lazily sprawled out on Hank’s bed, having long since grown bored of following him.

The simulacrum had just about despaired when at last Hank came walking through the door. “Hank!” the Hart cried in relief, immediately seizing the knife and the parchment on the table and rushing toward him.

The silver-haired man swore and dropped his bag. Nuts scattered all across the floor. The Hart ignored them, already holding out knife to Hank handle-first. “Thank goodness that you’re back. I thought the sun would certainly set before you returned and then we would be forced to do this inside. While my blood does evaporate quickly, it would still create an awful mess.” It was only then that the Hart noticed Hank’s hand on his own hunting knife and the alarm written across his face. “But… did you think I was attacking you?” The Hart’s brows knitted together. “I would not do that. I _could_ not do that. I belong to you. Here, take this.” The Hart tried to shove the knife and the parchment into Hank’s hands.

Hank accepted the parchment but not the knife. “What the fuck is going on?” His eyes skimmed over the parchment, and his expression slowly changed from apprehension to irritation. “Oh, tell me this isn’t about this stupid wish shit again.”

“Of course it is,” the Hart said impatiently. “It is growing dark and it would be most convenient for you if we did this outside. I have listed some of the more popular wishes that I have heard about, though if you have thought of one while you were out, that is of course acceptable.”

Hank rubbed a hand over his face and took a deep breath. “Look,” he sighed. “I already told you, I’m not doing this.”

“I know that you’ve been having trouble thinking of an acceptable wish. If you take a look at the list I’ve created…”

“I looked at the stupid list, kid. There’s nothing on there that I want.”

"Are you sure? If you just –”

Hank gave a growl of frustration and brought the list to his face again. “‘To have unlimited riches.’ No, I barely know what to do with the money that I already have. ‘To be a king.’ I can’t take care of myself. I have no business leading a country. ‘Eternal li –’ Are you fucking _kidding_ me?!” Hank gave the Hart a look of utmost disgust.

“I crossed that one out,” the Hart said stiffly. “You’ll see that I replaced it with ‘eternal youth and beauty’.” Although, the Hart thought as he cast an appraising eye over the human, he was not certain how the magic could improve upon Hank. Perhaps it would just freeze him like this until the end of his days.

Hank snorted. “Yeah, good fucking luck. Don’t think even the Faerie Queen has magic enough for that one. ‘The most beautiful individual in the world to fall in love with me and be my spouse’ – had a wife, she’s gone. Not interested in another. ‘Ten horses never bridled’… what even _is_ this shit?” Hank cast the parchment onto the table and fixed the Hart with a stare so intense that he felt paralyzed. “Look,” the human said. “Even if I wanted any of this stuff – which I don’t – I still wouldn’t do… that.” He gestured vaguely toward the Hart. “Because there’s nothing on this list that would justify me taking your life. Not if I can’t have my son back.”

“But I’m not –”

“Alive, yeah, I know.” Hank shook his shaggy head. “There’s just some things a man can’t live with. For me, that’s one of them. I’m not going to kill you for some stupid, selfish wish. Do you understand me?”

No. No, the Hart did not understand. It was his entire life’s meaning, it was… “It’s my purpose,” the Hart whispered through numb lips.

“Yeah?” Hank cocked an eyebrow at him. “Well, what if you don’t fulfill your purpose?”

“We would stop functioning,” the Hart answered at once. “Our purpose is what animates us. Without it we are… I am… nothing.”

Hank had bent to gather up some of the spilled food. Now he paused. “What, so if I don’t kill you, you’ll just drop dead by morning?”

“No,” the Hart said, then thought about it. “I don’t know,” he amended. “I don’t think so. There are other aspects to my purpose than… the final one. As far as I know, I would just return to the Fae Realm.”

“Perfect,” Hank said. “Do that. For now, let’s make some grub.”

* * *

The Hart mostly watched as Hank threw together a dish called “pottage”, which seemed to be mostly random ingredients thrown into a pot. He did have to admit, the final result did smell quite good. Sumo certainly had no complaints as Hank doled out a steaming bowlful for him, devouring it with gusto. Hank had hesitated as he spooned out the second bowl of pottage. “Do you need to eat?” he had asked, turning those brilliant blue eyes on the Hart.

“I can benefit from ingesting small amounts of food, and I require water to continue to function,” the Hart had replied. “But no, I do not need eat in the same way that you do.”

“Here,” Hank had said, grabbing another clay bowl and turning the ladle toward him. “Serve yourself as much as you need.”

Taken aback but obedient, the Hart had taken a tiny portion for himself and sat with Hank at the table. They ate wordlessly, after which Hank had loudly announced that he was going to bed. A single look had been all that it had taken to silence the Hart’s final attempt at suggesting Hank lay claim to his wish. Hank had made the Hart turn his back as the human changed into a night shirt, and within fifteen minutes, Hank was snoring on his straw mattress. The Hart was left alone with the dog to watch the fire burn down to ash and sense the final hours of the Hunt ticking down. Three hours until sunrise… two hours until sunrise… one hour…

When only five minutes remained, the Hart approached the bed. “Hank,” he murmured, trying to wake the human as peacefully as possible. The human smacked his lips and muttered something. “Hank.” The Hart shook his shoulder gently. “Hank, it’s time for me to go.”

“Wha?” Hank opened one bleary eye and gazed up at the Hart.

“I have to go,” repeated the Hart. “I wanted to tell you that I… I appreciated that I had the chance to meet you. You are a very strange human, but I think you are a good man. I hope that you can find happiness.”

“Mm.” Hank shut his eyes again and rolled over to face away from the Hart. There was a good chance that the human would not even remember the conversation. It mattered not to the Hart, and he was out of time. The simulacrum slipped out of the cottage into the frigid November air. He let the magic rush through him, and with a flash the handsome young man was no more. The White Hart ambled back into Belle Frith and beyond the veil of the Mortal Realm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is this the end for these two? Not by a long shot. I'm taking next week off, but I'll be back just after the new year with a shiny new update for you! Please, if you can, leave kudos or a review. They are my main source of motivation.


	5. Interlude I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Hart returns to the Fae Realm. Hank attempts to forget. The next hunt approaches.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me, crying: Hey brain, remember when this was supposed to be a 15k oneshot with only Hank and Connor as characters? Remember that?  
> My brain, standing over my bloodied body: Shhhhh. All the robot children must be in this.
> 
> Yeah this whole thing has really gotten away from me.
> 
> Trigger warning for this chapter! The last segment has some serious stuff in there. If it's not your bag, feel free to skip it. You won't miss anything huge, I promise. TW: mild body horror, sexual content, gore

It was one day after the Hunt.

On most days, Hank struggled to open the smithy before lunchtime. However, on most days, Hank either spent his evenings in the tavern or at home, quietly trying to drink his life away. Supping with the Hart made this impossible. Every time Hank stood to refill his tankard, such unvarnished concern would flicker across the Hart’s handsome features that Hank would have to invent some other excuse for having gotten up, such as letting the dog outside three times within an hour. Now, without the usual soporific effects of alcohol, Hank found himself wide awake not even an hour after daybreak.

Hank sat up slowly. His body gave the usual aches and groans of age, but it was the first time in more than a month that he had woken without even a mild hangover. All things consider, Hank was feeling pretty damn good. Sumo was on him immediately, slamming his paws into his chest and licking at Hank’s face. “Ugh, Sumo, get down!” Hank pushed his dog off the bed. Unfazed, Sumo jumped right back up, wagging his tail expectantly.

“Yeah, yeah, hang on. I’m coming.” Hank cast a quick look around the tiny cottage. It appeared to be deserted, and in the one-room house there were not many places to hide. Still, he felt compelled to be certain. Feeling rather silly, Hank cleared his throat and called out to the room. “Hello?” He was met with only silence.

Sumo whined and jumped down, trotting over to the entryway to nose at the door handle insistently. “Hang on, I said,” grumbled Hank, leaving aside his concerns about invisible simulacra in his house to tend to the dog. He slouched over to the door and eased it open. Sumo tore outside, making a beeline for his favorite bush and giving an audible sigh as he lifted his leg to relieve himself. Hank huffed a laugh, but did not follow. Way too fucking cold. He left the door slightly ajar for Sumo and shuffled to the hearth.

Hank ladled out a bowl of leftovers from the copper pot nestled in the remains of the fire. He set aside enough for Sumo when he was back from his happy frolicking, then eyed the last portion, weighing the pros and cons of eating it now or saving it for supper. With a shrug, he decided that dinner was a problem for future-Hank and added the remaining pottage to his bowl.

It was only as he sat down at the table that Hank realized the Hart’s list was still there. Such a waste of good parchment. He took a bite of mostly-cold pottage and, in spite of his better judgement, picked up the list and cast an eye over its contents.

Just as before, most of the Hart’s suggestions were too ridiculous to be seriously considered. “Glory to your name in battle” – Hank was far too old to be fighting in any wars, and he was not about to die for some noble in a pissing match with his neighbor. “A sword that would never dull” – that was the kind of shit that would put Hank out of business. “The untraceable death of my enemy” … this was one seriously fucked up list. And the Hart had said these were the “popular” options, which meant that someone, somewhere had wished for this.

In Hank’s mind’s eye, he saw a parade of young men with open, trusting faces and soft brown eyes lie down and die for the sort of asshole that would want this garbage. He could almost hear the Hart’s gentle reminder that it was all right because he was not really alive. That this was only fulfilling his purpose.

“Fuck this,” Hank muttered. He crumpled the parchment up and tossed it into the ashes. Fuel for tonight’s fire.

* * *

The garden was a riot of color. All around him flora grew lush and vibrant, a stark contrast to the Mortal Realm where everything was starting to slip slowly into its winter hibernation. The lake lapped placidly at the shore, small fish flitting about just below the surface. The Hart stood beneath a tree, watching the shadows dance as the flowering branches swayed in the gentle breeze.

Here, he was safe.

Here, everything was as it should be.

Much as the Hart wanted to lie down in the soft green grass and revel in the simple peace of this place, he did not. He was expected. Instead the Hart strode up the path marked in white stones to where Queen Amanda would be waiting.

The Faerie Queen stood with her back turned to him. Every time she entered the garden, the Queen kept busy. Whether that was to prune the trees, plant new flowers, or to guide the Hart to be his best, she was always improving on something. Today she was tending to the roses. With no hesitation or remorse, her skilled hands cut away the lesser blooms and cast them aside. Others that had only just begun to flower she coaxed into full blossom with her enchantments. Their petals spread beneath her fingers, burgeoning before the Hart’s eyes into immaculate crimson roses.

The Hart felt the hum of magic beneath his skin as he shifted his shape. When he again had a human mouth with which to speak, he made his presence known. “Hello, your Majesty.”

The Queen turned to face him, a serene smile on her lips. “It’s good to see you,” she said, her voice low and melodic. “When we watched that hunter capture you, we had thought that you would not return to us. I am happy to see you.”

The Hart nodded once, then grew still to allow Queen Amanda to circle him and ensure that he was undamaged. He took the opportunity to observe her own appearance. Today Queen Amanda wore robes woven from strands of the sea, waves constantly rippling and crashing under the Hart’s gaze. As always, her silver circlet was upon her brow, but the true mark of her power as Faerie Queen was her hair. Twisted into innumerable tight braids, shimmering raw magic intermingled with the Queen’s own jet-black locks. Any Fae creature would need only the barest glance to understand that this was an incredibly powerful being – the most powerful, in fact, in all the Fae Realm

And the Hart had been made for her, lovingly crafted to be precisely what she needed him to be. Entertainment for her people, a reminder of her power for mortals, and polite company in the time between. Even the simulacra with the purpose of being her personal attendants were not so in sync with her desires as the Hart. He was special. He was unique.

Queen Amanda had told him so.

“All seems in order,” the Queen said at last. “However, I still expect you to visit Elijah to ensure that there are no repairs needed.”

This was their standard procedure after each Hunt. The Hart dipped his head in acknowledgement. “Of course, your Majesty.”

"We will be hosting a ball tomorrow evening in celebration of your return.” This, too, was typical, though the glint in Queen Amanda’s eye told the Hart that this ball would be of special significance. Never before had a Hart surrendered but been allowed to return unscathed. The whole court would be buzzing with excitement.

The Hart met her gaze steadily, answering her unspoken question. “I will be honored to attend, your Majesty,” he said, then bowed low before her. When he straightened, he saw that the Queen’s smile had returned. She knew that he was up to the task.

* * *

The fucking faerie let the oil in the lamp burn down.

It was three months after the Hunt, and Hank stood at his table, swearing a blue streak as he stared at the space where the wick was supposed to be. All that remained was charred metal, the hungry flame consuming the wick when the oil had all burned away. Hank could afford a new wick, yes, and new oil, but right now the lamp was worth less to him than the glass and metal from which it was made.

Usually Hank had all business finished before nightfall and had thus far failed to notice that the lamp was empty. Tonight, however, he had fallen behind on work while engraving the details of an especially intricate breastplate. This, in turn, meant that Hank had not had a chance to check his hunting traps before sundown. Leaving them overnight virtually guaranteed anything he had caught would be eaten by wolves or other nocturnal predators before daybreak. But now there was no other option, thanks to that brown-nosing simulacrum.

Hank slammed the lamp back onto the table with more force than was strictly necessary and picked up his pewter tankard. He stalked over to the barrel in the corner to draw himself a drink. It was running dangerously low, he noted, which did nothing to help his black mood.

Hank did not like to think about the Hart. It just dredged up disappointment, grief, and a whole other mess of feelings that he did not want to untangle. The temptation to drink himself into oblivion was strong, but Hank resisted. An empty belly for him might be acceptable, but he would not willingly do that to Sumo. The dog was watching him hopefully even now, dripping drool all over the stone floor. Hank sighed and grabbed a handful of dried beans for the cookpot. They would make for a bland meal, but it was better than nothing.

Later, when the boiled beans had been consumed and Sumo’s snores were threatening to make the cottage shake, Hank found himself staring at the lantern as he nursed his ale. The memories of that night drifted back to him more vividly now, the alcoholic buzz taking just enough of the edge off that Hank did not immediately shove them away. He remembered the Hart’s huge eyes as he realized what Hank intended, the earnest way that he had said _“please”_ when he asked Hank to come inside, his warm hands on Hank’s chilled skin. He imagined the Hart staying at his bedside as the oil in the lamp burned away to nothing.

He thought about the Hart speaking to him softly. _“You are a very strange human, but I think you are a good man. I hope that you can find happiness.”_

“Well, now I know I’m fucking drunk,” Hank mumbled to no one in particular. “’M just making shit up now.” He tipped down the last of his drink, then dragged himself over to bed. Tomorrow, he would regret this line of thought. Tomorrow, he would wake up with a hangover and still no meat and no oil. Tonight, Hank allowed his fuzzy brain to curl up in the memory of long fingers carding through his hair.

* * *

“Welcome.” Chloe’s bland smile met the Hart as she opened the polished oak door. The Hart did not smile back as he stepped inside, nor respond to her greeting. Chloe had no feelings to hurt, and the Hart saw no reason to perform for her. Her expression did not falter. She merely said “Elijah is waiting for you” and led the Hart down the hall.

The Hart never knew quite what to expect in Elijah’s workshop. Some things remained unchanged. The wooden desk in the center of the room, the shelves in the back containing spare simulacrum parts, and the paintings only occasionally rotated. Everything else was in flux. The Hart had never seen the same view twice out of the great floor-to-ceiling windows. Today the window seemed to imply they were beside huge, craggy mountains in the midst of a blizzard, rather than in an estate on the edges of the castle’s temperate gardens. Scattered about the room were Elijah’s latest projects. Three faerie assistants were busily replicating a simulacrum, a slender, dark-skinned man with short black hair. The template simulacrum stood patiently as the faeries bobbed around him, pulling away parts of him to examine more closely before returning to their own constructions. As always, they paused in the work as the Hart entered, stopping to stare at him curiously.

The other two projects were slightly more unusual. In one corner, a simulacrum’s torso rotated slowly in a near-invisible magic bubble. In another, a simulacrum woman and what appeared to be a human girl were cuddled together on a couch. The simulacrum was reading to the child, quietly but in an animated manner judging by her facial expressions. The Hart could not help but stare. He had never seen a human in Elijah’s home other than Elijah himself.

“Ah, there you are. I was starting to wonder if you were coming.” Elijah was standing at his desk and did not look away from his tinkering as the Hart approached. He waved one hand in a dismissive gesture. At once, all three faerie assistants jumped to attention and scampered from the room, trailed by their model. The woman simulacrum closed the book and spoke softly to the human child, then they both stood and followed the rest of the crowd out of the room, the little girl’s hand clasped tightly in the simulacrum’s own. Only once the workshop had been emptied of everyone except the Hart and Chloe did Elijah set down the eyeball that he had been working on and approach the Hart.

Elijah waved his hand again, this time his fingers glowing with a soft blue light, and the Hart’s feet left the ground. The Hart spread his arms, his clothes dissolving into nothing to allow Elijah a cursory glance over his nude body. “No abrasions in outer dermis,” he dictated to Chloe, who faithfully took notes. Elijah’s hand hovered before the Hart’s chest. It curled into a claw and he drew it back sharply. The Hart’s skin came with it, peeling away from everything below the neck to reveal the muscles and bones underneath.

“I’m shocked to see you back,” Elijah commented as he stepped closer for a more thorough examination. “We lost sight of you after you left Belle Frith –” he flicked a hand distractedly toward the windows “– but we were all certain that you were dead days ago. What happened?”

The Hart swallowed hard. There it was, the inevitable question. “Nothing happened,” was the only answer he could give.

Elijah did not look up at him, his eyes fixed on the Hart’s right thigh where the arrow had pierced. “No lasting muscular damage,” he told Chloe. “Healing magic seems to be holding strong. What do you mean, nothing happened? Surely you did not stand just outside of the forest for a day and two nights.”

“No,” the Hart agreed. “I followed the human to his home. He was…” The Hart hesitated, flashing back to an image of Hank standing on a chair, tying a rope around an oak tree. A human, alive in a way that the Hart could never be. Hank, who offered him a seat at his table and shared his food like an equal, who loved his son so fiercely that he could not bear to be without him, who acted like the Hart was a person and not just a means to an end, had been so desperate to end his life… Something inside of the Hart ached.

Elijah’s voice brought him back to reality. “Iron scars remain unchanged in left arm. Continue observation after the next Hunt.” If he had noticed the Hart’s lapse in speech, he did not comment. The Hart gathered his thoughts and resumed his report.

“The human was distressed that his original wish was not a viable one. I offered him several alternatives, but he did not want anything.”

At this, Elijah scoffed. “Everyone wants something.” He peeled away the Hart’s next layer to examine his cardiovascular and nervous systems.

To argue with his creator seemed an unforgivable sin, and yet… “The human was rather insistent that there was nothing that he wanted, aside from his desire to resurrect his son.” The Hart was careful to keep his tone neutral.

Again, Elijah made a dismissive noise. “Everyone has a price, something that they would do anything for. Unless…” Elijah’s eyes flicked up to meet the Hart’s at last. For the first time, the Hart really noticed their color – blue, just like Hank’s, and yet so profoundly different. Hank’s eyes made the Hart think of an undisturbed oasis, of the sky on a cloudless day. Elijah’s eyes were pale and cold. “You don’t think he wanted _you,_ do you?”

The Hart blinked. “Wanted… me?” he echoed, confused.

“Sexually,” Elijah elaborated. “Did he desire to bed you?”

“Oh.” The Hart blinked again, several times, as he processed this information. Did Hank desire him? The Hart thought back, recalling the way that Hank had left as soon as he began to undress himself and the fact that he had mentioned having a wife. “I do not believe that to be the case,” he answered at last.

“Good.” Elijah turned his attention back to his work. “There’s a reason we didn’t make this the hunt for the White Doe. Far too many foolish young men who would try to marry it instead of killing it. It would get boring very quickly.”

“The human was not foolish,” the Hart said before he could think better of it. Hank had managed to do what none had accomplished in the past twenty-seven hunts and set a successful trap.

“Evidently he was. He let an extremely powerful wish slip through his fingers. Nor was he young, from the looks of him.” Elijah clicked his tongue disapprovingly. “Perhaps you did not offer him the right incentive.”

The Hart snapped abruptly out of his musing about what it might be like it Hank _had_ desired him. His spirits plummeted. He had _failed_. The Hart had not been clever enough to come up with a suitable wish for Hank and because of his failure, not only was Elijah disappointed in him, but Hank had been deprived of a once-in-a-lifetime wish. If he had been smarter, if he had been better, he could have changed Hank’s life. What had he done for him instead? Accepted his hospitality and left him with useless parting words hoping for his future happiness. Pathetic.

“I’m sorry, Elijah,” he managed to croak out, his throat feeling oddly tight. “It will not happen again.”

Elijah ignored him, snapping his fingers. In one motion, the Hart’s body flew back together, as flawless as it had ever been. The magic holding the Hart aloft dissipated, allowing him to sink back to the ground. “Thank you,” the Hart said reflexively.

Again, Elijah ignored him, addressing Chloe instead. “All vitals and structures remain steady from previous examination. No adverse effects from spending time outside of Belle Frith. Let Amanda know that he is ready to begin his next Hunt in two days’ time.” With that, he strode back to his desk and picked up the eye again. Sensing his dismissal, the Hart started to leave, then paused as Elijah moved over to the floating simulacrum torso. Earlier he had been too intent on the human child to notice, but a shock went down his spine as he watched Elijah shove the eye into what had been an empty socket.

The Hart drew closer, staring up at what had been the most famous simulacrum other than himself in all the Fae Realm. Only a handful of simulacra crossed regularly between the two dimensions. Markus was one of these renowned few. He had been a gift from Elijah to one of his favorite artists, Carl Manfred, the very man whose paintings hung all along the walls. The man had refused the offer to reside in the Fae Realm, and he was said to be too sharp to be tricked, and so Elijah had created Markus as his own form of patronage. The Hart had met him on several occasions while Markus delivered paintings to Elijah and at various parties. The Markus in his memory had been well-mannered, handsome, and clean. This version… His clothing was torn, parts of his body were missing, and the Fae mark at his brow had dissipated completely. “What happened to him?” the Hart breathed, unable to stop himself.

“Hmm? Oh, yes.” Elijah seemed to have almost forgotten that the Hart was present. He wore an expression of distant sadness. “It’s a shame, isn’t it? There was a disagreement with Carl’s son that left him dead and Markus… like this.” He indicated the simulacrum rotating slowly before them. “Fortunately they missed everything vital, but with Carl gone, Markus no longer had a purpose. Amanda asked that I bring him here and revive him so that he may be given a new purpose. We hope to make him into a bard simulacrum so that he may recount the stories of Carl’s long and eventful life on Earth.”

The Hart said nothing, but his mind whirled with confusion. A new purpose? He had never heard of a simulacrum being repurposed before, at least not with its memories intact. The Hart stared up at the simulacrum who had been, if not his friend, at the very least an acquaintance. His eyes were now a mismatched blue and green, and while the Hart knew that Markus remained inanimate until he had been instilled with his new purpose, he could not shake the feeling that Markus was staring back at him.

* * *

“So you’ll be late with rent, huh?” Hank asked gruffly, leaning back against his anvil.

“I’m sorry,” Chris said, hanging his head. “It’s just, work’s been slow lately, and there have been other expenses and…” He trailed away guiltily.

Once upon a time, Hank might have been concerned. When Hank had bought the smithy from the previous owner, he had had no need for the attached house, but leaving the house unoccupied potentially invited thieves. Hank had come to the conclusion to rent the house out and had squirreled away every coin, saving for Cole’s education and his future.

Now, however, Hank could not possibly care less. He earned more than enough as a blacksmith and gathering in Belle Frith, and whatever was not squandered on cheap drink or food usually collected dust. Besides which, he liked Chris. He had been Hank’s tenant for nearly ten years, since he had was fresh out of his apprenticeship as a carpenter. Hank had watched from afar as Chris grew into his own as a tradesman, and was eventually married and joined in the little house by his wife, Phoebe. Hank already charged Chris a low rate, first with the excuse that Chris was only getting established in his trade, then telling him he was doing Hank a favor by keeping the smithy safe at night, and finally by saying that he needed to care for his wife. If Chris’ pride would have permitted it, Hank would have charged nothing at all. This was the dilemma Hank now faced, not how to extract the money from Chris but how to convince him that it was all right.

Evidently, silence was not the right move. Chris began to twist his hands anxiously, staring at his shoes. “Once business picks up again, I swear I can pay you back. I can even pay interest. Just please, don’t kick us out. We can’t afford to find anywhere else.”

“Chris, I’m not gonna…” Hank started to say, then broke off as Phoebe poked her head in.

“There you are! We’ve been looking all over for you!” Much to Hank’s shock, a baby was cradled in Phoebe’s arms. As far as he knew, she was not due for another month at least. “Oh, hello, Hank!” Phoebe smiled brightly, then passed the baby to Chris. “He missed you.” She planted a cheek on Chris’ cheek.

Chris offered her a weak smile, but his eyes darted to Hank, as if dreading his reaction. Hank would not pretend that seeing a family together like this did not twinge a little, even after all this time, but he tried not to begrudge happiness. “I didn’t know you already had the baby,” Hank said, giving her a smile that was only a little bit forced.

“Yeah, he took us by surprise, didn’t you, my love?” Phoebe tickled at the baby’s chubby cheek.

“We named him Damien,” Chris added quietly.

Hank’s heart squeezed painfully in his chest. Many parents waited to name their child until after their first winter, especially one born early. The thought was that if they did not survive, their loss would hurt less. That Chris and Phoebe had already named Damien was a sign of hope, and of love. They were willing to risk putting themselves through the pain of loss to ensure that their son would not die unnamed and unremembered.

Hank had not hesitated to name Cole, either.

“So, what were you saying before I interrupted?” Phoebe asked.

In one panicked look, Hank saw it all. Chris had not told her. The young man opened his mouth to explain…

“I was just thanking Chris for paying next month’s rent in advance,” Hank said before Chris could utter a single word. “Like I said, Chris, I’m not gonna complain, but don’t forget to save something to look after your family, alright?” The smile came easily this time, but his gaze was serious. “They’re the most important thing that you will ever have. Take good care of them.”

Phoebe’s beaming face and the unspoken gratitude in Chris’ eyes as they said their goodbyes was worth more than any money could buy.

 _"I don’t have a name,”_ the ghost that lingered at the back of Hank’s mind spoke up softly. _“So you may call me whatever you wish. If you were wondering.”_

“Shut up,” Hank muttered to himself, grinding his teeth.

It was two months before the next Hunt.

* * *

While the Hart was accustomed to being the center of attention, even he had to admit to feeling a little bit overwhelmed. Everyone at the ball clamored to see him, to hear how he had managed to escape his human captor with his heart and the wish intact. What trick had he played, what manipulation had he used?

No trick, he had said at first. The human had simply let him go. After watching the interest leave the eyes of the first two Fae given this answer, the Hart resigned himself to his duties. He was built to entertain, and so he did.

He told them the story that they wanted to hear. How he, the Queen’s Hart, confused the human with too many ideas until his time had run out. How he had convinced the human that if he spared him, the Hart could help him become more powerful than the Faerie Queen herself. There was more than one Fae that implied, as Elijah had, that Hank had desired him as a mate. The Hart readily agreed, weaving a tale of seduction and betrayal. That no two stories matched would only heighten the intrigue for the Fae. They cared little for truth, only for the story, and by daybreak it would no doubt have mutated into something completely different. The common thread remained the same. Tricky Fae, stupid human.

The lie tasted foul of the Hart’s lips.

Yes, any of the ruses that he had suggested were possible, but there would be no honor in chicanery after having surrendered. And Hank, the Hart was confident, would not have fallen for even half of lies that he claimed to have told.

When Queen Amanda made her appearance at the ball, it was all the Hart could do to stop himself from sprinting to her side. Out of all the fine dress in the room, the Queen was the most striking by far. She had donned robes woven of the night sky with countless twinkling stars. Queen Amanda graced the Hart with a smile and took his proffered arm, allowing him to escort her around as she greeted her many guests. A band of mixed faeries and simulacra played. A human sang a high, sweet aria, her eyes glazed with enchantment. All around them, Fae danced and laughed and ate food that could give them no sustenance but wafted divine aromas all through the ballroom. The Hart had seen it all before, but the Fae never seemed to tire of their revelry.

“Your Majesty,” said the faerie before them, bowing. The Hart recognized him instantly as Andronikov. No sooner than he had made this realization then a second voice came in their ears.

"Well, good evening to you, Andronikov,” Elijah said, materializing seemingly from nowhere. “I am pleased to see that you could join us tonight. Amanda.” Elijah inclined his head toward the Queen.

For all that Elijah Kamski had been born a human and had spent the first three decades of his life among them, he fit in with Fae seamlessly. Perhaps it was the fact that his nature was so similar to that of faeries – flighty, a little arrogant, and inclined to view others as playthings rather than people. He no trouble navigating their politics, and even his informal greeting of the Queen was a move in the eternal game. The Queen nodded back graciously, acknowledging Elijah of status enough to forgo her title. Andronikov’s smile grew steely.

“Your Majesty,” he interjected again, trying to draw attention away from the newcomer. “I wanted to present you with my latest work. I think you will be very pleased.” He swept his arm back to draw attention to the simulacrum behind him.

At first glance, the Hart had thought it unremarkable, but looking upon it now, he saw that it was an amalgam of different simulacra. Using parts of one simulacrum in another was not terribly unusual, but never had the Hart seen anything like this. It was a patchwork of subtly different muscle tones and flesh colors, its eyes an unsettling, glowing amber and black. “I could never choose which of them was most useful,” Andronikov said, “so I simply decided to bring all of them with me. They are three, all with their minds and purposes intact, infinitely useful. Say hello, Treble.”

“Hello,” the simulacrum said, its voice buzzing strangely as if the magic holding it together threatened to split apart at any moment.

"It is some impressive work,” Queen Amanda said. That, thought the Hart, was putting it mildly. While they could imitate or alter, no Fae creature had ever successfully created something new. It was why humans so fascinated the Fae, despite their short lifespans and lack of inherent magical talent. Andronikov had come increasingly close with his experimentation. Theoretically, if Andronikov ever successfully managed an original design, he could threaten Elijah’s place at the court.

If Andronikov had hoped to unsettle his rival, he would be disappointed. Elijah appeared almost bored as he gave the simulacrum a once-over. “Fascinating,” he remarked smoothly. “Though your spell-weaving leaves much to be desired. Keep working, Andronikov. Perhaps someday I might hire you as one of my assistants.” Andronikov’s face went purple with rage, but he dared not speak up in front of Queen Amanda. “Now,” added Elijah, “I believe this would be an opportune moment to make my announcement. By your leave, Amanda.”

Elijah tapped a fork against the side of his glass. The room grew still and silent, all eyes turning to the Hart’s creator. “Good evening,” Elijah said. “Thank you for joining us tonight. I know I speak on behalf of her majesty when I say what an honor it is to have you all here with us. We are looking forward to our next Hunt in a few short days. In the meantime, I would like to take this opportunity to present you with a very exciting new project of mine. Alice?”

The doors to the ballroom opened and the simulacrum woman that the Hart had seen the previous day entered, leading the human girl. The Hart fought to keep any surprise out of his expression. What was going on? The sentiment was clearly mirrored by the rest of the audience. All around the room, whispers rippled. Had Elijah Kamski taken on a Changeling child?

The girl hesitated and said something to her simulacrum that the Hart could not hear. The woman knelt briefly and put her hands on her shoulders, murmuring something equally inaudible in response. The girl nodded and, with one last backwards glance, continued alone to stand before Elijah.

“Welcome, Alice.” Elijah gave Alice what attempted to be a reassuring smile. “Now, to you this may appear to be nothing more than a human girl. What if I were to tell you that she is nothing of the sort? What if I were to tell you that she is, in fact, a simulacrum?”

The Hart’s gaze on her sharpened. A child simulacrum? Why would anyone create that? Where was her Fae mark? He did not understand.

“For years, Changeling children have been a double-edged sword,” continued Elijah. “They may grow and provide us great entertainment and joy, but in return we must give up one of our own to the human world. Worse yet is dealing with the tedium of waiting for them to come into an interesting age. Tireless wailing, or perhaps going through the hassle of finding a time pocket to house your child and their simulacrum caretaker. A great deal of effort with often disappointing results.” He placed his free hand on Alice’s shoulder. The Hart caught her subtle flinch.

The whispers had grown louder this time, but this time with an enthusiastic edge. “I know what you are now wondering. Would not a parent see through our ruse in no time, when their child did not grow? I am pleased to announce to you that Alice is the very first of a new line of aging simulacrum. They will grow into adulthood as any other child would, and by the time anyone is any the wiser, they will be too old to ever trade back. Today marks the start of a new era, where we may handpick the best and brightest humans to raise among us and provide us entertainment for millennia to come. To the new age!”

Elijah raised his glass in a toast and the party broke into thunderous applause. The Hart’s eyes travelled across their many elated faces, across Queen Amanda’s proud smirk, and Andronikov’s scowl. He took in the little girl, now staring at the floor, and the simulacrum who had come in with her who stood off to one side. She did not applaud either, but crossed her arms over her chest and stared back at him with eyes that seemed almost pleading. But that, of course, was ridiculous.

For no reason that he could put his finger on, the Hart wondered what Hank would say if he could see this.

* * *

_He sat astride the great white stag as it frantically tried to buck him. Hank refused to be unseated, tightening his grip with his thighs and hooking his feet under its belly. Reaching forward, Hank seized the base of the blazing red horns, attempting to wrench them away from himself. Try as it might, the creature could neither throw him off nor gore him with its antlers._

_The Hart’s struggling lessened, the form beneath him blurring and shifting. Hank was suddenly looking once again into the face of the Hart as a young man, his narrow hips bracketed in by Hank’s thighs and his wrists restrained at eye level. The Hart’s face showed no sign of distress. Rather, he gazed up at Hank with a beatific smile._

_“You caught me, Hank.” The Hart’s warm breath ghosted across Hank’s skin, making him shiver. He could see every star reflected in the Hart’s glassy eyes. “Let me give you your heart’s desire.”_

_‘I don’t want anything you can give me,’ is what Hank should have said, what he_ wanted _to say, but his body had a mind of its own. He found himself leaning down to capture the Hart’s lips with his own. The simulacrum’s mouth was impossible soft, yielding to Hank as he deepened the kiss. Hank’s mind was suddenly ablaze with the desire to taste, to touch, to know every part of this alien creature._

_Hank broke away to press a line of open-mouthed kisses on the Hart’s neck, working steadily downward to nip at his collarbone. “Hank,” the Hart whimpered, the name sounding like a song on those full, perfect lips. Hank could only moan wordlessly in reply. He nosed over the Hart’s unblemished white skin, then took one of the Hart’s pink nipples between his teeth and teased it with his tongue._

_The Hart gasped and writhed beneath him, grinding their hips together with a delicious friction. Hank groaned and rutted against him desperately. “I’m yours, Hank,” the Hart panted in his ear. “You can have anything you want.”_

_And Hank did want him, needed him, needed to bury his aching cock inside of him and turn those breathy, sinful little noises that the Hart was making into cries of ecstasy. Hank crushed his mouth against the Hart’s, silencing the Hart’s continued murmuring with a bruising kiss._

_Warm. Wet. Hank flexed his fingertips against the unfamiliar sensation. Something was wrong. Reluctantly, Hank drew away from the Hart to stare at what had been the simulacrum’s chest but was now a gaping cavity. His ribs jutted out in splinters, his lungs pushed haphazardly aside for Hank to clutch at the still-beating heart._

_The Hart just smiled up at Hank, seemingly unaware that Hank’s hands were coated in its iridescent blood. “Anything you want, Hank,” he whispered again, watching Hank dreamily. “Anything you want.” The cobalt heart in Hank’s hands pulsing slowed and then stilled completely. The Hart’s clear brown eyes turned foggy, but that peaceful smile never wavered._

Hank sat bolt upright in bed, gasping as if he had just run for miles. Sumo was on him at once, trying to crawl onto the bed and barking as though to ward away the unseen intruder. “It’s okay, Sumo, it’s okay.” Hank put out one hand to comfort him, passing the other over his brow. A small part of his brain tried to tell him that they were still sticky with blood. He allowed the distressed dog to clamber into bed with him, stroking his fur as he tried to calm his racing heart.

“Well… that was a new one,” he said with a weak sort of chuckle.

It was one week before the Hunt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some special thank yous to dole out this week! First, shoutout to the lovely VexBatch who edited the last section for me. I've never written smut before and their feedback was invaluable. Thank you also to Lady Drace for looking this all over when I was on the verge of throwing this whole thing out this afternoon. Thank you to everyone who has commented, I will get around to answering them soon but they are all that keep me going as this slowly takes over my life. And thank you, finally, to the incredible Ellie, whose threat to my kneecaps is literally the only thing that has kept me from giving up all day.


	6. Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hank captures the White Hart. Again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is not as long as I had been intending. Life kind of handed me my ass this week.
> 
> Also, yes, I am aware that the chapter count keeps going up. We will get there when we get there!

They found the first footprint after three hours.

Three hours of stumbling around in the gloom, praying that the early morning light would soon be strong enough to filter through the canopy of trees. Three hours of pretending not to notice any of their fellow hunters looking down their noses at him, snickering behind their hands. _Stupid old man and a stupid old dog. They don’t have a chance._

If only they knew.

Hank ignored them. He spoke soft encouragements to Sumo and kept his eyes peeled. Their odds were admittedly not great. Belle Frith was a big place and their competition numbered in the hundreds. Hank did not have a team of horses or strings of dogs, no hunting party, no plethora of traps. But Hank did have one thing that he was reasonably confident was his alone.

Hank had the knowledge that they were not necessarily seeking a stag.

Which is why when in past years Hank might have written off the foot snare dangling impotently as an example of one hunter trying to sabotage another, this time he stopped to examine it more closely. The snare was not just disabled, but it had been unknotted. As he squinted closer, Hank made out an imprint of a bare human footprint. Only one person would be wandering around these woods without shoes. His heart kicked up with excitement.

“Sumo, here.” Hank pointed to the footprint, which Sumo obediently snuffled. His tail began to wag slowly as he recognized the scent of his long-lost friend. As he had been trained to do since puppyhood, Sumo trotted along with his nose planted on the ground, following the scent until it abruptly disappeared after only a few feet. Sumo turned circles, whining in confusion. Hank was already squatting down to search around for a new sign of the Hart’s presence.

And there they were. Not more than a yard away, a set of distinct deer prints that had thankfully not yet been disturbed. “Here!” Hank ordered Sumo again, allowing the dog to sniff at the new set of prints. Just like that, they were off, retracing the Hart’s steps. They moved at a brisk trot, Sumo bounding ahead and Hank fighting back embarrassment at how easily he found himself winded.

They stopped intermittently when Sumo lost the scent. Sometimes it was a simple matter of searching a radius near where the trail went cold for Sumo to give a little bark and go charging off again. Other times, Hank had to crouch low and seek out the new set of prints where the Hart had changed shape – tiny mouse paw prints to wriggle out from under a net, the stripe of an adder’s belly where it had sought refuge under some tree roots. As Hank had hoped, there must have been some common thread to the scent, because after a while they were stopping less and less. That was, until they found the bodies.

The corpses of two young men lay splayed out, their stomachs torn open and their lifeblood soaking into the dirt. People died every year during the Hunt. Hank had previously chalked it up to their inexperience in Belle Frith or simply bad luck. This time, there was no mistaking the claw marks and the smeared red paw prints in the earth surrounding the men.

Hank covered his mouth with the back of his hand, fighting back nausea. For the first time, he wondered if he was doing the right thing by seeking the Hart. Maybe his initial impression of the Hart had been correct and everything that it professed was true – it was not a real, feeling creature, but a soulless thing made to kill or be killed. To Hank’s eyes, there was no sign of hesitation, and he recalled vividly how the Hart had leapt at him as a wolf one year earlier. If not for the weapons littered all around them and a nearly-evaporated puddle of glowing blue blood, Hank might have turned back there and then. “Self-defense. He acted in self-defense,” Hank murmured. Maybe he was just deluding himself. Maybe he was just seeing what he wanted to see. For now, Hank’s pity still outweighed his contempt.

However, even if Hank had decided to continue on, he could do nothing about the fact that Sumo had well and truly lost the trail. The dog paced and whined, unable to get a clear scent in the chaotic remains of the battle. Hank’s heart sank. Utterly at a loss and knowing that his chances of stumbling across the Hart’s trail a second time were slim, Hank did the only thing that came to mind. He mentally calculated the closest route to the creek and struck out in that direction.

The sounds of running water had only just reached Hank’s ears when Sumo stiffened. The next moment, the dog was charging ahead, barking wildly. “Hey!” Hank called after him, giving chase, but Sumo was already out of sight. There was a loud splash, then Hank stopped short as he heard an unmistakable voice.

“Sumo! What are you doing here?”

Hank peered around the tangle of bracken obscuring his view of the river and saw the two of them. The Hart was flat on his ass in the shallow water. Sumo had his paws planted on his shoulders and was licking a stripe up the side of his face, his whole body wiggling as he wagged his tail. “Yes, yes, I’m happy to see you too,” the Hart was saying, what almost sounded like a laugh in his voice. “But why are you here? Where’s Hank?” The Hart turned his head to scan the surrounding area.

It was now or never. Hank stepped out from his hiding place, his bow in hand and an arrow trained on the Hart. The Hart immediately froze, his eyes going wide and darting from the arrow to Hank’s face and back again. Hank stared the Hart down, willing him to sense his intentions.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Hank said, taking one step forward and then another. _I_ won’t _hurt you_ , he tried to telegraph with his eyes. “Just surrender and everything will be much easier for everyone.”

Already, Hank was starting to have second thoughts about this plan. The Hart had put up one hell of a fight last year and the memory of those two bodies was fresh in his mind. Sumo was still oblivious in his rapturous greeting. A bolt of fear shot down Hank’s spine as he wondered if he could call the dog back before the Hart made his move.

The Hart did move, and Hank’s grip on the arrow tightened, but the simulacrum only gave Sumo one last affectionate scruff before raising his hands. “I cede,” he said, meeting Hank’s gaze steadily. “By the laws of the Hunt, you have captured me. You are entitled to your wish, your heart’s deepest desire.” Hank’s heart twisted in his chest, recalling how he had felt the last time he had heard those words. The wound of his bitter disappointment tore open and bled anew. But, Hank reminded himself, that was not the Hart’s fault. That was not why he was here.

Hank relaxed the bowstring, dropping his aim to point harmlessly at the ground. Before he could say anything, the Hart was already speaking again. “I will admit, I had wondered if something like this might happen.”

Hank’s mouth dropped open. “Really?” he blurted. Even Hank had not known that he was planning to do this until a week ago.

“Yes,” the Hart said, gently but firmly urging Sumo out of his lap. Robbed of attention, Sumo promptly decided that being chest-deep in water was not worth it and bounded back to land, shaking water everywhere. The Hart stood, wet fabric of his shift clinging to his slender legs. “I am glad,” he added, and he gave Hank the most open smile that he had ever seen the simulacrum wear. “I wanted it so badly to be you.”

“Uh,” was about Hank could manage as the Hart stepped out of the water. Hank could not seem to move, even when the Hart drew close – far too close, as far as Hank was concerned. His eyes never left Hank’s face, his Fae mark a calm blue.

The simulacrum tilted his chin up, exposing his long, pale neck, and closed his eyes. “My only request is that you make it quick,” the Hart whispered.

Just like that, the spell was broken. Hank jerked backwards, nearly losing his footing on the uneven ground. “The… the fuck?” he sputtered.

The Hart eyes snapped open, his Fae mark instantly shifting to yellow and his smile melting away to be replaced by a look of bewilderment. “What?”

“What exactly do you think is happening here?” Hank demanded, but a sick churning in his gut made him think he already knew the answer.

“You… thought of a wish after I had departed. You’ve tracked me down again to claim it from me.” Even through the Hart’s confusion, Hank caught a spark of approval in the simulacrum’s handsome face.

“No. God, no.” Hank’s face twisted in disgust. The Hart really thought so little of him? Hank replaced the arrow in his quiver to emphasize his point. “I came to keep you… You said last time that if you’d already given up to someone that you’d be safe.”

The Hart cocked his head to the side. “I said that no one else could claim the wish. I never said that I would be safe.”

“Right. So I caught you. No more wish.” Hank spread his arms. “You can just hide out for the next couple of days and you’ll be fine.”

The expression on the Hart’s face was slowly morphing from a confusion into what looked suspiciously like irritation. “ _Hank_ ,” he said slowly, and there was definitely a patronizing bite to the word. “Do you think any of these hunters would give me the chance to explain that I can’t grant their wish if they caught me? They would shoot me before I could utter a word.”

A flush crawled its way up Hank’s neck. “I know that!” he said, trying not to sound as defensive as he felt. He may have felt that the Hart’s admiration was undeserved, but now that it had so thoroughly evaporated, Hank felt rather wounded by its absence. “I figured you could just be a mouse or something for a couple of days. Not a lot of fun, but…” The man shrugged and scratched at his beard self-consciously.

The Hart continued to stare at him as though he were an idiot. “I can’t maintain that form, Hank. One form to let the humans give chase, one form to communicate and entertain, and all the rest to make sure that my opponent is worthy and not just lucky. I would change back in a few minutes.”

“Fine, then.” Hank’s temper was starting to flare, coloring his voice with anger. “Stay like this. They’ll just think you’re a faerie and ignore you.”

The simulacrum crossed his arms over his chest. “I’ll freeze,” he said crisply. “This form is ill-adapted to these conditions. I can’t even walk around without injuring my feet.”

“Fuck,” Hank muttered, mostly to himself. This was not how this was supposed to go.

“It seems to me that all you’ve done is stop me from doing my job,” continued the Hart. “There is no point in me continuing the Hunt if I cannot grant a wish, and you’ve made it clear that you have no intentions of helping me fulfill my purpose – the purpose which animates me, I will remind you. I will not last the next two days ignoring it.” Double fuck. Hank had forgotten about that part, too. “So, _Hank_ ,” the Hart said, repeating his name with infuriating condescension, “what exactly do you propose we do about this?”

“Fuck you.” Hank took a step forward, stabbing a finger toward the Hart’s chest. “You’re an ungrateful bastard, you know that?”

“With all due respect, I never asked for this,” the Hart snapped back.

They glared at each other, each waiting for the other to crack and back down. Much to his shame, Hank dropped his gaze first, cursing.

“Fine. Fucking… fine.” Hank started to unstring his bow, more to give himself an excuse not to look at the Hart and his goofy, stubborn, handsome face anymore. “I’ll take you back to my place. You can hide out there for a couple of days, then you’ll go back like last time.”

“And my purpose?” the Hart asked.

“What about it?” Hank said, not looking up from his task.

“I already told you. I need it to live.” Hank had to bite his cheek to stop himself sniping something about _I thought you weren’t alive, remember?_ “I have to at least _try_ to grant your wish.”

“And if I say no?”

“Then I would say that for someone who purports to want to keep me safe, you’re doing a poor job of it.”

Now Hank did look back at him, watching his face closely. The Hart’s irritation had dissipated and he stared back with the same impassive look that Hank was accustomed to. “I think you’re full of shit,” Hank said.

The Hart simply gave a one-shouldered shrug. “I don’t know what to tell you,” he said lightly. “I will point out that faeries cannot lie to humans.”

Hank ground his teeth and finished unstringing the bow. “Fine,” he bit out again. “Tell you what. You can make one wish suggestion per day. That should count as fulfilling your purpose.”

“Three,” the Hart countered.

“ _One_ ,” growled Hank. “Don’t push your luck, kid.”

The Hart was silent for a few moments, considering. At last, he gave a shallow nod. “I agree to your terms, Hank.”

How Hank had gone from what was supposed to be a short catch-and-release mission to having the Hart come home with him, Hank was not quite sure. Every time the Hart came across his path, all of his plans seemed to spiral completely out of his control. One thing was certain, at least. No matter what the Hart offered him, there was no way that Hank would take him up on it.

* * *

If the Hart was confident in one thing, it was that Hank would make his wish before the Hunt was over. Last time, the Hart’s mistake had been making suggestions too generic, casting a wide net and hoping to stumble upon Hank’s dearest desire. Now, against all odds, the Hart had been granted a chance for redemption, and he knew how to fix his mistake. The Hart would learn all that he could about Hank and his life and tailor his suggestions to fit the human’s needs. Having only one attempt per day was an unfortunate barrier, but the Hart was confident that he could overcome it. Frankly, the whole negotiation had gone better than the Hart could have anticipated.

Of course, the Hart had never foreseen having a negotiation with Hank at all. When the man and dog had reappeared, all the Hart could think was that Hank had now twice over proved himself worthy of the wish and how pleasing it was that Hank could be the one to claim it. Never had he imagined that Hank would have gone through all the effort of tracking him not to make his wish, but because of _him_ … to _save him_ … Misguided as Hank may be, the Hart could not fight the warmth in his chest, bubbling like sweet champagne.

The Hart allowed himself to revel in that warm, golden feeling for just a moment before pushing it aside. He knew his duty, and that was now to convince Hank to make his wish by any means necessary. The Hart did not strictly _lie_ to Hank. He simply lent certain possibilities more weight than they necessarily held. _If_ another hunter caught him, they would kill him… but first they would have to catch him. The Hart only allowed them to get as close as they did for his unseen audience. Having surrendered to Hank, there was no wish to be had, and thus nothing stopping the Hart from hiding in the depths of the forest until the two days were over. Ignoring his purpose for two days _might_ be enough to deplete the magic that kept him animate… but it could just as easily do nothing to him at all, since he was doing nothing to go actively against his purpose, either. And yes, it was true that faeries could not lie to humans. This one, the Hart felt, was Hank’s own fault for not catching. As the Hart had repeatedly pointed out, he was not a faerie.

So, no, he had not lied to Hank. Why, then, did the Hart feel like he had swallowed a stone that now sat in the pit of his stomach? The weight of it only grew as Hank, grumbling all the while, stripped off his socks to at least give the Hart’s feet some measure of protection from the forest floor. “Keep your head down and try to keep that thing - ” Hank jabbed a finger at the Fae mark “ – covered if we run into anybody. If anyone stops us, let me do the talking.” Under other circumstances, the Hart might have been inclined to argue. As it was, the simulacrum just nodded mutely.

Following Hank home was starkly different than last time. The Hart was not rushing to keep up with him and could choose his steps more carefully. Sumo was at their side this time, his tongue lolling out in an idiot dog grin. And while they made steady progress, Hank did not trek on with single-minded determination but occasionally stopped to grab a handful of mushrooms, greens, and once to cut a rabbit down from a snare. The Hart could not stop himself from asking “Is that yours?” with a little frown.

Hank glowered at him. “Trust me when I say they would have left it to rot. Snare was meant for you, anyway. I think if anyone is entitled to some of it, it’s you.” The Hart considered, then relented. He had to admit Hank had a point. Besides, the Hart had never had a chance to try real cooked rabbit.

They passed by another hunting party only once. Hank and the Hart heard them coming from some distance off, their laughing voices echoing loud enough to scare away any game for miles. The Hart would have snorted derisively were he not gripped by a sudden sense of his vulnerability in this form. He cupped one hand over his Fae mark, certain that the thundering of his heart would give their position away.

A hand came up to squeeze the Hart’s elbow. The Hart jumped before realizing that it was just Hank. “Just ignore them,” the older human said in an undertone. “They probably won’t notice us. All three sheets to the wind, by the sound of it. Fucking tourists.”

The Hart relaxed slightly, allowing Hank to guide him as the other hunters came into view. Hank’s intuition proved true judging by the color high in their cheeks. The Hart held his breath as they drew level, but just as Hank had predicted, they paid no mind to three of them. Soon enough even their raucous voices had faded and the Hart breathed a sigh of relief. “There you go,” Hank said encouragingly, dropping his hand away. The Hart immediately mourned the loss of Hank’s grounding touch.

The sun was well beyond its midday zenith when they arrived at Hank’s cottage. Hank halted for a moment to fumble with the iron lock on the door, which the Hart was careful to avoid as he stepped inside after Hank. “Make yourself at home, I guess,” Hank said. “I’m going outside to clean this.” He held up the rabbit. “We’ll set it up for a stew tonight. If you want to be helpful, you can get a fire going.”

“I will,” said the Hart. “Thank you, Hank.”

“Yeah, no problem,” grumbled Hank, starting to stalk outside again.

Seeing Hank turn his back on him, the Hart was seized by a sudden urgency. “Hank, wait, I-!”

Hank paused in the doorway, looking over his shoulder. “Yeah?”

The Hart’s mouth hung open uselessly. Words were usually something that came so easily for him. For the first time in his life, the Hart could not think of what to say. Hank had come for him. Hank should not have come for him. Hank was stopping him from completing his purpose. Hank wanted to protect him. The Hart had spun half-truths to get into Hank’s home. There was so much that the Hart wanted to say, so much he could not, should not say that it all welled up at once. “I… thank you,” he repeated at last, silently begging Hank to understand him in all his woeful inadequacy.

The blue eyes softened slightly and the Hart thought he caught the beginnings of a smile, but then Hank had turned away and all the Hart could see was Hank’s shaggy grey hair. “Yeah. No problem,” he said again, his tone gentler this time, and then the man was gone.

It took Hank around half an hour to return with the skinned and gutted rabbit. During that time, the Hart had built a small but respectable fire, copying Hank’s actions from the last Hunt, and was now sitting in one of the chairs with Sumo’s head in his lap. Being idle did not come naturally to him, but it had been a tumultuous morning and a little rest was honestly an appealing notion. Hank placed the cookpot over the fire, added some oil, and waited for it to heat. “So, kid,” he began casually.

The Hart made a disapproving little noise, still half-engrossed with tangling his fingers in Sumo’s silky fur. “You are aware that I am adult of my species, correct?”

Hank laughed out loud. “Yeah, well, serves you right for walking around calling me human before,” he said.

That feeling was back. The warm bubbling in the center of the Hart’s chest. Hank’s laugh made it flair back to life. The Hart did not know what it meant and resolved to ignore it.

“But anyway, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about, actually. So is not having a name, like, a simulacrum thing, or…?”

“Oh, no. Most simulacra have names.” The Hart’s voice sounded strange to his own ears. Wistful, almost.

“So why don’t you just make one up, then? If you want one. I mean, humans do it all the time.”

“I cannot want things. I am not really alive,” the simulacrum answered reflexively. “Also, names work differently for Fae creatures. We cannot make our own. They can only be given to us.”

“Yeah, I figured it was something like that,” Hank muttered, so low that the Hart was doubtful if he had meant to be heard. Hank huffed out a long breath. “So… if I… did that. Would that put me on the hook more than I already am?”

The Hart’s hands stilled in Sumo’s fur. Surely he must be misunderstanding. Slowly, he raised his eyes to stare at the human. Hank still had his back turned, now browning the rabbit in the cookpot with a wooden spoon. “If you…?”

“If I gave you a name,” Hank said gruffly.

All the breath seemed to leave the Hart’s body. “I… you would… name me?” he asked weakly.

“Well, that’s what I’m asking. Would that, I don’t know, bind you to me in any way? I don’t want to get involved in any of this faerie shit more than I have to be.”

The Hart shook his head, then, realizing that Hank could not see him, managed to squeak out “No… it wouldn’t.”

“Okay. Then, I’ll do it. If you want.”

 _I cannot want. I am not real. I am not alive._ The words that had been drilled into him since his first day of existence came to mind, but they were drowned out by the rest of him singing _A name! A name!_ “What… would my name be?” the Hart asked instead, his tongue feeling oddly heavy in his mouth.

“Well,” Hank said, speaking with an almost deliberately airy voice, “you and Sumo get along pretty well. What about Connor? They say it means ‘lover of hounds’.”

The Hart was meant to be adaptable. Names for Fae creatures tended to shape their nature, and the Hart was needed to be many things, so he had never been given one. A name of any kind would change him forever. _This_ name in particular could interfere with his duties as the White Hart. It was a bad idea.

It was not a name that Hank had thought of off the top of his head. Whatever his casual tone might claim, Hank must have put some real thought into this. The human had remembered the Hart. He had thought about him enough to come up with a name. The warmth in his chest was spilling over now, flowing through him until every part of his body filled up with that bright, golden feeling. Unbidden, the Hart’s face split into a wide grin.

“My name is Connor.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 20k in and our boy has a name!
> 
> As a heads up, I may miss the update next Sunday because I am needed for a family project. I promise that I will do my utmost to have it up anyway, but just wanted to let you guys know just in case!
> 
> As always, thank you to everyone who kudos'd and commented. Y'all are the only thing keeping me going on some days. See you soon!


	7. Chapter Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Connor and Hank make dinner. Connor makes a mistake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so. I realize that this was a longer hiatus than intended. Life... happened. I am back now and I'll be pushing through to finish this fic in a timely manner.
> 
> TW for this chapter:  
> Referenced miscarriages

For a guy who claimed not to have feelings, Connor was doing a shit job of hiding them. Hank could practically feel him vibrating with excitement behind him. At first the man kept his gaze fixed firmly on the browning rabbit, but when the simulacrum repeated “Connor,” in a dazed sort of way, Hank could not help but sneak a look behind him. He wasn’t made of fucking stone, after all.

The Hart sat with his hand pressed against his chest, staring into the middle distance and with a smile on his face unlike any Hank had seen out of the simulacrum up to now. Lopsided, almost silly, making the edges of his warm brown eyes crinkle up. Connor looked… happy. Hank’s heart stuttered in his chest and he tore his eyes away, clearing his throat. Though he could no longer see him, there was a palpable shift as Connor’s attention snapped onto him. There was a moment of long, tense silence – at least, tense for Hank. Connor’s eyes burned into him, making Hank’s skin prickle and the air of the cottage seem thick and cloying.

“Thank you, Hank,” said Connor, voice soft and radiating such pure _joy_ that Hank’s heart forgot its rhythm again momentarily. “I will treasure it always.”

“Yeah. Don’t mention it.” Hank’s words came out in a hoarse croak. A warning from his father long ago echoed in Hank’s mind, his stern tones telling him not to name any of the livestock, lest he become too attached to kill it. As he had then, Hank brushed away his father’s words. Connor was not livestock, he was a man, and a man deserved a name to call his own. Besides, Hank was already quite determined not to kill Connor, and there was no need to worry about becoming too attached when the simulacrum would return to the Fae Realm in only two days.

Trying to hold onto his rationalizations and ignore the sneaking suspicion that he had fallen into a trap of his own making, Hank decided that the rabbit was browned enough. He set aside his wooden spoon and picked up the bucket of water he had drawn from the well that morning to empty it into the pot. Hank picked up his pack that he had dropped unceremoniously on the floor and debated on sorting out the contents, then decided to procrastinate for a few minutes. Instead he grabbed up a shallow basket and stumped over to the door. Any second now…

“Where are you going?”

Yep, there it was. Nosy bastard couldn’t give him a moment’s rest. It was like Sumo when he was a puppy, shadowing his every step.

“Garden,” he grunted, hauling open the door.

“Garden? You have a garden?” Connor’s voice held such obvious enthusiasm that Hank halted and looked over his shoulder. The simulacrum’s dorky grin was still in place, but his expression was now laced with curiosity.

“Er, well, not much of one,” Hank mumbled, his face heating under Connor’s unwavering gaze. “’S November and all. What, you like gardens?”

Connor was already getting to his feet. “Yes, very much, I –” Connor suddenly stiffened, and if it hadn’t been so damn sad, Hank would almost find it funny how transparently the simulacrum remembered that he wasn’t supposed to actually “like” anything. As it was, it was like watching a candle be snuffed out. Connor’s grin diminished, his face rearranging itself into a bland smile. “I spend much of my time in a garden when I am in the Fae Realm,” Connor said. “It would be very interesting to compare the two, if you would permit it.”

Hank was tempted to stipulate that the simulacrum could only accompany him if he promised to knock off his “I feel nothing” schtick, but he had a feeling that that conversation would just end with Connor digging in his heels and not getting to see the garden after all. Instead, Hank just sighed and held the door open a little wider. When Connor did not take his cue, he added, “Come on if you’re coming, ‘fore all the heat gets out. I’m telling you though, you’re going to be disappointed.”

* * *

Connor was disappointed. To his credit, he did his best to mask it, but he was a poor liar. Given that his response to Hank’s announcement of “Here we are,” was to look around with confusion for the garden… Hank couldn’t pretend it didn’t wound his pride just a little. It was the condescending “It’s very nice, Hank,” that did Hank in, though.

“I did warn you,” he snapped. Insides roiling with embarrassment, Hank started pulling up turnips.

Truthfully, the garden was looking pretty picked over these days – just a few root vegetables hanging on until the first hard frost of the year and a scraggly thyme bush that God himself couldn’t kill. If Connor had been here in the summer, at least there would have been more to look at, though Hank admittedly no longer kept up the garden as immaculately as he had before… well, before.

Hank sensed Connor draw closer, body heat radiating off of the simulacrum like a forge. “This is what you grow? Is it food?”

“Well, yeah?” Hank paused and shot Connor a quizzical look. “What were you expecting?”

“I… am not sure,” Connor answered thoughtfully. “The garden where I am from is filled mostly with trees and flowers. There are many kinds, and they are very beautiful.”

“Yeah, that makes sense,” muttered Hank. Faeries always did like pretty things, and while some Fae creatures needed to eat, it was said that faeries themselves were immortal beings who needed no such sustenance. Of course Connor would only have seen gardens made to be beautiful, not functional. Hank, he couldn’t remember the last time he had put in the effort to grow flowers in his garden. No, actually, that wasn’t true. The flowers had seen their last season when his wife had died. After that, Hank had been too focused on keeping Cole healthy and thriving to spend time tending to flowers. That had worked out so well.

“May I see?” Connor’s voice broke through Hank’s spiral of dark thoughts.

“Huh?”

“Your harvest. May I see it?” Connor’s head was cocked slightly one side and his eyes were once again alight with curiosity.

“Uhh. Knock yourself out, I guess?” Hank handed over the basket of turnips and carrots as he set about stripping sprigs of thyme off the scrubby little bush.

Connor accepted the basket and ran one slender finger over a small, lopsided carrot. Hank grimaced, anticipating a comment on its imperfection, but instead Connor murmured in a tone bordering on awe, “You _grew_ this? It started as a seed and you grew it into this food for you and Sumo?”

“Uh,” Hank said again. Connor had a habit of knocking him on his ass. Both metaphorically and literally. “Yeah. That’s kind of how it works.”

“Wow,” Connor breathed, as if that was the most incredible thing that he had ever heard. This shapeshifting, Fae creature imbued with enough magic to alter reality was fawning over a couple of _carrots_.

“I don’t get you, Connor,” Hank said at last, starting to get to his feet. His knees groaned in protest and he cursed under his breath. “Gimme a hand, will ya?” Connor held out his hand at once, clasping Hank’s own in a strong, solid grip and hauling him to his feet. “Thanks,” Hank said, letting him go and brushing the dirt from his breeches, then paused as he noticed Connor staring at him with an odd expression, his hand still outstretched. “What?” he grouched.

“Nothing!” Connor said quickly, dropping his hand to his side. “Shall we go inside, or was there something else that you needed to finish?”

“Nnnno…” Hank said slowly, still squinting at Connor suspiciously. Yeah, definitely didn’t get this guy.

Back inside, Hank wasted no time in cleaning and starting to chop his ingredients. Sumo sat at his feet, staring up with huge, hopeful eyes. Connor lingered nearby, his hands tucked neatly behind his back. “Is there anything I can do to be of assistance?”

Under other circumstances, Hank might have turned Connor down because he definitely didn’t want the simulacrum to start on any of this subservient shit again, but right now he just wanted to stop feeling so watched. He offered the knife to Connor handle-first. “Cut these up. Try to make them even pieces.”

“Got it.” Connor accepted the knife and stepped into Hank’s vacated spot in front of the work table, his shoulder nearly brushing Hank’s chest as he crowded into Hank’s personal space. Hank took a step back only to hear a yelp and a scuffle. Sumo scooted away with a betrayed look as Hank swore and stumbled backwards.

Connor’s hand darted out, arresting Hank’s wrist in an iron grip. A thrill of fear shot through Hank. He was suddenly acutely aware of the fact that he had just given Connor a knife. “Connor, what the hell –” Hank started, trying to twist away. In answer, Connor only shifted his gaze to a point on Hank’s left, his Fae mark a pulsing yellow. Hank glanced over his shoulder to see the copper pot bubbling happily away scant inches from his left hand. “Oh.” Hank moved away from the hearth and shook off Connor’s hand. This time the simulacrum let him, turning his attention to the dog.

Sumo gazed up at them, tail wagging and all pain seemingly forgotten. Connor still took his time closely inspecting him. “There seems to be no lasting physical or psychological damage,” he declared, straightening up.

“Yeah, not the first time I’ve tripped on him. Won’t be the last, either. Sorry, bud.” This last was directed at Sumo as Hank took the dog’s head in his hands and gave him apologetic scratches. Sumo drooled happily.

Crisis now over, Connor took up his assigned task with gusto, slicing the roots with inhuman precision. Hank busied himself sorting out the contents of the pack. “Scooch over, will ya?” he grunted to Connor. The simulacrum moved obligingly, giving Hank room to work beside him. Cutting with his hunting knife was more difficult, but what he may have lacked in Connor’s meticulousness Hank made up for in experience. “Here, you can do these, too,” he said after Connor had finished with the turnips, passing him the trimmed and cleaned chicken of the woods mushrooms.

“Are those also for the stew?” Connor asked, eyeing the cattails Hank withdrew next from the pack.

“No,” Hank answered as he snapped off a tip. “You can use this fluffy shit for pretty much everything. Keeps you warm, helps with wounds, whatever. And these –” he indicated the muddy roots with his knife “ – you can dry out and grind up. Or just throw them in the pot, but we have enough for tonight.” He chanced a look at Connor’s face and found him following along with rapt attention. “You’re really interested in this stuff, huh?”

“It’s very different from the Fae Realms,” was Connor’s reply. “I have never done anything like this before. It is… entertaining.”

“Huh.” Hank chuckled quietly. “I’m not sure most people would agree with you there. This is work.”

“Oh? What do humans do for entertainment, then?”

“Lots of stuff. Eat, drink. Some people play games or… I don’t know, gamble on the games.” Hank shrugged.

“What else?” Connor prompted.

Hank paused. The simulacrum seemed as impassive as ever, calmly chopping carrot tops, but Hank’s instincts told him that they had moved past the realm of idle curiosity. Still, Hank could see no harm in answering the question. “I don’t know,” Hank said, casting his mind to what others did for fun and landing on the obvious. “There’s festivals, I guess, around holidays. People come and play games of chance. There’s performers. They dance, they sing…”

“Do you?”

“What, sing? Fuck no.” He glanced at Connor again and found him staring. Hank did his best to glower at his companion. “I don’t dance, either, so don’t even ask.”

“In what case, what do you do for entertainment, Hank? What makes you happy?”

A derisive little noise slipped out of Hank before he could stop it. “Yeah, there’s a question,” he muttered, scrounging in the bottom of his pack and pulling out a couple of sweet chestnuts. “You ever had these before? Squirrels go fucking nuts for them.” His tone remained conversational, but his face was grave. Blessedly, Connor took the hint and allowed the subject to be changed.

The tense atmosphere gradually eased into companionable peace. Hank worked on some other minor chores to pass the time while the soup boiled away and Connor took Sumo out to do his business. Hank had to admit it was kind of… nice, actually, having company other than his dog. It made the house feel more alive than it had in years.

He should have known that it couldn’t last.

No sooner than the food was on the table and Hank had sat down to eat then Connor’s attention suddenly shifted, sharpened. “May I ask you a personal question, Hank?”

Hank took his time dunking a hunk of bread in the stew, allowing it to cool to an edible level, and chewing it slowly before answering. “Would it make a difference if I said ‘no’?”

“Working together would significantly increase our chances of a favorable outcome,” was Connor’s answer. So that was a “no, it would not make a difference”, then. Connor waited expectantly for Hank to reply. When the man said nothing, Connor plowed on. “I would like to learn more about you. Your likes, your dislikes, your habits, and your values. All of these should inform my advice on selecting your wish.”

And god, Hank just wanted to run. All this touchy-feely crap was everything he hated and Connor sitting there with his earnest fucking expression, waiting for him to, what? Spill his guts out? At the same time, Hank couldn’t just ignore Connor or tell him to fuck off because then he would be stopping him from fulfilling his purpose. Could he? The rules on this whole thing were fuzzy and Hank was way too sober for this conversation. “Is there an actual question in here?” he growled, taking a big gulp of ale as he tried to figure a way out of this situation.

“I apologize. I wanted to ask what made you decide to live so close to Belle Frith?”

Whatever Hank had been expecting the Hart to ask, this was not it. “Um,” he said, utterly nonplussed. “I didn’t. I mean, I guess I could have moved away, but this house was my father’s before it was mine, and before it was his it belonged to his father. My grandfather built this place nearly a century ago. You don’t just leave that kind of history.”

“I see,” Connor said. “So your grandfather chose to place your family near a Faerie Hill?”

“Wait, hang on.” Hank’s train of thought was momentarily derailed. “Is there _actually_ a hill somewhere in there?”

“It is merely the traditional name for a place where the veil between our worlds is more easily pierced.” Connor gave a slightly impatient gesture. “Do you enjoy living near to one?”

The wound in Hank’s heart, always oozing, gave a renewed pulse of pain. “Of course I don’t,” Hank sneered. Belle Frith had taken everything from him.

There had been a time when Hank had been proud to live beside the Fae forest, proud of his heritage as a member of the only family to brave Belle Frith on a regular basis. Aside from his years as an apprentice and a journeyman spent living at the smithy with his master, Hank had spent his whole life in this little cottage. When he took a bride, Hank brought her back to the home that he had inherited, and together they had made their lives here. They had hung all their hopes on a child and eagerly awaited its arrival.

But as the years tumbled by and pregnancy after pregnancy was met with only heartbreak, a dark voice in Hank’s heart began to whisper that perhaps the town gossip was true. Hank and his family were all cursed because of their ventures into Belle Frith. The day that Cole was born, all of those doubts were silenced. Ten fingers, ten toes, and utterly perfect. Losing his wife had been a hard blow, but Cole’s death brought all those feelings back full force, along with a deep-seated hatred for the Fair Folk. And yet.

And yet Hank still lived here, in this supposedly cursed cottage. He still made regular trips into the forest for game and foraged food, still sold them in town for a bit of extra coin. He had still participated in the Hunt the last four years running. Now here he was, for the second time with a Fae creature in his home, and this time of his own volition. God, what the _fuck_ was he thinking?

It was only when Connor spoke again that Hank realized how long the quiet between them had stretched. “I ask this because I am trying to gather information on how to make humans, and you in particular, happy. Many of the things that you mentioned as being a source of happiness for other humans require the company of others. It seems to me that you are isolated, based on the evidence.”

He shouldn’t ask. Don’t ask, Hank. “Evidence?” Hank asked.

Connor nodded, ticking off examples on his fingers. “Your house is located far away from any other human settlements, as far as I can tell. This would make interaction more challenging, especially during the winter months. You have dishware and utensils enough to accommodate for multiple people, but only one set is out and regularly used, leaving aside the bowl you use for Sumo. And aside from all that, our interactions indicate that you may have certain unresolved… personal issues that could potentially result in difficulty making or maintaining interpersonal relationships.”

“Is this your fancy way of saying I’m an asshole?” Hank narrowed his eyes.

“No,” Connor said. “It’s my fancy way of saying that you seem lonely.”

Well, fuck. Somehow Connor had gutted him in just a simple sentence, ripped him open and laid him bare right there at the dinner table. Hank swallowed hard. “Humans are overrated, okay? Now just shut up and eat your stew.”

“Hank, I didn’t mean any –”

Hank silenced him with a look. “Eat. Your stew.”

Connor ate his stew. The rest of the meal passed in stony silence. Hank said nothing as Connor began to tidy up after dinner, choosing instead to knock back mug after mug of ale. Let Connor try tell him he should stop. Hank almost wished that he would. But the simulacrum said nothing.

“… Hank?” Connor spoke up at last, after what seemed to be hours. Maybe it had been. Time had gone a little bit fuzzy.

“What?” Hank growled, raising his heavy head to meet Connor’s gaze. The Fae mark at Connor’s brow glittered an anxious yellow, and while his face was blank as ever, his eyes were fearful. Hank was not sure if the simulacrum was scared of him or scared for him. His chest ached.

“I wanted to make my first suggestion for a potential wish. I suspect that you will not like it, but I would feel… remiss in not at least informing you. I…” Connor’s pink tongue darted out to wet his lips, but his next words snapped Hank’s drifting attention abruptly back. “I recently learned that it is possible to replicate human children. While we could not truly… recall his soul, he would have all of his memories and could grow as he would have…”

Connor’s voice died away, or perhaps the rushing in Hank’s ears just drowned it out. A stranger with Cole’s face, with all of Cole’s memories, pretending to be him. He imagined holding this false child, calling him his son, while his son, _his baby_ , lay cold and forgotten. “No,” he croaked. “No. Never.” Cole was dead. Cole was gone. Cole would never, ever come back to him…

“That was my assumption,” Connor said. “Come. It is late. You should rest.”

When Hank made no move, Connor drew close. Once again, warm, strong hands were helping him up, pulling Hank back from the precipice of despair and back into this reality, for better or for worse. Connor guided him to bed, drawing the covers around him. It was eerily similar to that first night a year previously, and yet so much had changed. “Connor…” Hank mumbled, the simulacrum’s face swimming before his eyes.

For a moment, Hank thought he caught a flicker of… something in those warm brown eyes. Connor reached out and smoothed Hank’s hair away from his brow. He said something that might have been “Sleep well," but it was lost as unconsciousness pulled Hank under.

* * *

Hank had never enjoyed mornings. Waking up was an unhappy return to a life that had lost all meaning. Mornings between the months of October and January were downright miserable. Fall and winter brought up a lot of bad memories, which meant that Hank spent nearly every day nursing a hangover of some magnitude. On top of that, the house was always freezing by the time he got up. And while Hank’s first, sluggish thought that day was of his screaming headache, his second was that he was comfortably warm. He gave a slight groan but did not move, wanting to procrastinate getting up as long as possible.

Unfortunately, even such a tiny noise was enough to give him away. “Good morning, Hank!” came a voice way too fucking chipper for this early in the day.

Hank groaned again, louder this time, and buried his face in the mattress. “Go away, Connor.”

The voice gave a contented little hum in response. Hank peeled his eyes open just in time to see Connor smiling to himself as he ladled out some leftover stew. The simulacrum caught Hank watching him and the smile broadened, gazing at him with what looked suspiciously like _affection._ Hank’s stomach lurched like he had missed a step coming up some stairs, and he looked away as he sat up, the blankets covering him suddenly overwarm.

It was only then that he realized what was different about the cottage. It was… clean. Not just neat, but clean. Cobwebs had been cleared, the dirt scrubbed from between the stones, and the dust swept away. Hank could not remember the last time the house looked like this. Years, at least. His wife used to tell him that he slept like the dead, but Hank could not help but marvel at how much Connor had managed to accomplish without waking him.

His gaze fell on the fire, crackling merrily away. Hank winced. “Did you keep the fire going all night?” he asked, mentally adding up how much wood Connor would have wasted and shuddering at the thought.

“No, I rebuilt it when I thought you might be waking soon.” Connor set the stew on the table and gestured for Hank to take a seat. “Come eat before it gets cold.” Too dazed and sleepy to argue, Hank obeyed.

“Did you sleep at _all_?” Hank inquired when he had a little food in him and had woken up a little. His eyes roved around the cottage, taking in just how much work Connor had done while he had slumbered. The rug had clearly been shaken out and the mud had been cleaned from his boots. Hell, even Sumo doing his usual “I-have-never-eaten-in-my-life” routine beside him seemed to be spotlessly clean.

“I slept,” Connor assured him breezily, pouring water into Hank’s tankard. “I do not require as much rest as you do, and so I found other ways to occupy my time. Please, eat.”

Hank took another bite, but the last thing he felt like doing was eating. It wasn’t just the usual bout of hangover-induced nausea. A pit of dread had formed in his stomach. Hank would need to have a conversation about boundaries with Connor, and Hank was pretty sure it was going to hurt his “nonexistent” feelings. Connor’s smile had quieted, but he was studying Hank’s face, his desire for Hank’s approval painfully obvious. This was gonna be like kicking a puppy. It could at least wait until after breakfast.

Hank took a gulp of water and choked. It wasn’t water – or, rather, it was, but tinged with an unexpectedly tart flavor. “Wh-what the hell is this?” Hank coughed, even as his shock faded enough for him to recognize the taste.

“It’s sumac,” Connor replied, his eyes shining with pride. “I recalled that we passed some on the way home yesterday and when I read about it in your book –”

“What book.” Despite the fact that Hank had just taken a drink, his mouth was dry as cotton. He already knew the answer, but some part of him needed to hear Connor say it. Another part of him silently begged Connor to say something different, or even to say nothing at all.

“This book.” Connor picked up a weathered tome from a spot on the workbench and showed it to him. Hank recognized it, of course. How could he not? It had been in his family for as long as this house had been. One part almanac, one part diary, the book was the sum total of his family’s knowledge and history. Hank himself had spent hours sketching pictures of various plants that could be found in Belle Frith and their uses, recording major events, and penning other various pieces of knowledge that he felt would be useful for Cole and his descendants.

Adding the entry about Cole’s birth had been the happiest moment of Hank’s life.

He had not touched it since Cole’s death.

“Simulacra absorb information very quickly,” Connor said, misinterpreting Hank’s expression as one of surprise. “After I read that entry, I recalled seeing it yesterday. Since I knew it was not far, I thought that it would be a nice surprise for when you woke. I – Is something wrong, Hank?”

For Hank had suddenly stood up, his head bowed and his hands trembling. “You… had no right…” he hissed out between clenched teeth.

“What?” the bewildered simulacrum said.

“You had no _right_!” Hank roared. He ripped the book out of Connor’s hands as if he could take back some of the knowledge that Connor had stolen. “That’s private, goddamn it! You can’t just… just… That wasn’t _yours_ , Connor!”

Connor’s mouth hung open, working soundlessly. “I, I’m sorry, Hank,” he managed. “I didn’t realize… I never meant any harm, I just wanted to show you…”

“Show me?” spat Hank. “Show me what, exactly?”

Connor touched a hand to the red circle on his temple, a seemingly unconscious gesture. “Since you made it clear last night that you did not desire the presence of other humans, I thought that a simulacrum might be a possible alternative when you made your wish. I was planning to show you how useful it could be to have one around…”

Hank’s stomach lurched again, but this was no muddled, misplaced fondness, but pure nausea. His face twisted in disgust. “A simulacrum?” Cole, unmoving. A woman’s face, unmoved. Her eyes blank and emotionless. “You think I would ever want one of those… those…” Connor’s face before him, dotted with its constellation of freckles. His eyes were huge and vulnerable. He looked like he might live or die by Hank’s next words.

“FUCK!” Hank knocked the tankard from the table, the contents sloshing out all over Connor’s immaculately cleaned floor. He turned his back on Connor, breathing hard. He needed to get out of here before he said something he would regret. Even now a part of him fought to grab Connor by the front of that stupid frock and order him to get the _fuck_ out of his house. But if he did that then the simulacrum was as good as dead, wasn’t he? Instead Hank stomped over to the door, grabbing his coat and shoving his feet roughly into his boots.

“Where are you going?” Even now, Connor still didn’t know when to quit.

“Work,” Hank snapped. Not only was it true, but it was a clear message not to follow. In Belle Frith or here, Connor’s inhuman nature did not put him in jeopardy. In town, he had no choice but to stay away. Hank slammed the door behind him, the last, shattered look on Connor’s face already starting to burn a hole in his heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter coming Sunday at the latest! I promise! Thank you to everyone who kudos'd or left a review. I say it every chapter but I mean it - they are the only thing that keep me going a lot of the time. See you guys very soon!


	8. Chapter Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hank goes to work. Connor follows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay yes I know it's late I'm sorryyyyy. I got sick and I really wanted to get this chapter right. I hope you enjoy it. Also if there are any historical inaccuracies or bad blacksmithing going on here... Please know I tried my best.
> 
> TW: There is some discussed past dubcon or noncon, depending on how you view sex with "undeviated" simulacra. Please rest assured there will be NO dubcon or noncon in this chapter or in this work at all.

The White Hart was familiar with pain. In his approximate six months of life, he had been shot, stabbed, and strangled. He had even once, in his first years as the Hart, foolishly stepped into a horrible iron trap. It had burned him so badly that he had almost thought it better to tear off his left foreleg than to endure it any longer. Elijah had scolded him for creating an injury that would never completely heal, and he still bore the scars beneath his outer layer of skin. Until now, he had thought himself an expert in all types of pain, but he had to admit this one was novel.

Connor was left with no contusions or lacerations. No blood to conceal, no broken bones to bind, not even a discernable injury. He just… hurt.

The fire still blazed in the hearth, but Hank seemed to have taken all of the heat from the cottage with him. More than that, he had somehow reached inside of Connor to extract that warm, melted feeling that had been his ever since Hank had gifted him his name. Hank had taken that warmth back.

Not that it ever had belonged to him in the first place. Connor had been acting the fool.

Here he was, two days into the three-day Hunt, and no closer to determining Hank’s wish. Worse still, he had impulsively squandered his suggestion for today. Proposing a simulacrum companion had always been a risky gambit. Connor was aware that Hank did not enjoy being waited on, and he had certainly taken umbrage to Connor’s purpose in the past. However, Hank had also made it very clear that he rejected human company and that he was unwilling to abandon his ancestral home. The thought of leaving him alone in this cottage after Connor was gone to quietly drink himself to death, or worse, made Connor’s insides twist into knots.

No, leaving him alone would not do. Given these limitations, Connor had come to the next logical conclusion. He had intended to spend the day testing his hypothesis and bringing Hank slowly around to the notion of a simulacra of his own. Even if all had gone according to plan, Connor now doubted that this idea would ever have succeeded.

(The naked hatred on Hank’s face, his revulsion at the thought of having a simulacrum sharing his home and the burdens of life. “You think I would ever want one of those…” Those what, Connor wondered? He needed to know. He never wanted to know.)

Either way, Connor had gone and blurted out his intentions and wasted his second proposal. Now he had just one chance left to determine the wish that would make Hank happy. He must not fail. The fact that Hank now apparently hated him was just a new wrinkle.

Even now, Connor was not entirely certain what he had done wrong. It was a book. Books were meant to be read. Hank was upset that Connor had read it because it was not “his”. Did this mean that all books in the human world could only be read by their owners? Or was this a book a special case? Hank had also said that it was “private”. More information was needed, but unlikely to be provided. Hank did not respond well to direct questioning. In fact, right up until he had started shouting, Connor had thought that Hank would be glad that the simulacrum had found a way to gather information without bothering Hank directly.

Henry, son of Andrew. Fifty-four years of age. Trained as a blacksmith, unlike the previous two generations of the family who had made their living solely as hunters and foragers in Belle Frith. Wed to Cecily, daughter of Ida, at age 25, shortly after the death of his father. Their first and only child was born when he was 44, and his wife succumbed to ague the winter after. Log entries had grown more sporadic after that point and dropped off completely around four years previously.

While Connor was pleased to have filled some gaps in his knowledge about Hank, it was still nowhere near enough for him to determine the perfect wish. He needed to know more. Hank’s departure was a clear sign that he wanted to be left alone. Staying here would garner Connor no new information. Connor decided his priority and made preparations.

Finding a suitable shirt was no issue. Hank was a similar height to Connor, if a little broader. The breeches were very slightly overlong and a bit wide around the middle for Connor’s slender frame, but a belt fixed the latter issue. Connor also, blessedly, found a pair of old boots tucked away at the bottom of Hank’s chest of clothing. He had to admit that the sensation of wearing boots – or rather, lack of it – was unnerving. Donning Hank’s stockings yesterday was the most covering that the simulacrum had ever worn on his feet. It took Connor a few circuits paced around the cottage to convince himself that he was not about to topple over.

That left one major issue to be dealt with. Connor absently stroked one finger over his Fae mark. It felt no different than any of his other skin, but it would be an immediate giveaway. Hank did not own a looking glass, so Connor was forced to walk all the way to the well, draw a bucket of water, haul it back to Hank’s cottage, and wait for the surface to still. A waste of precious time, but he could not afford mistakes.

Now with a clear view of himself, Connor donned a coif, tying it snugly around his chin. The visage shimmering in the dark water looked human, but Connor thought he could see a hint of cerulean Faelight shining through the white linen. He added a grey woolen cap and checked again. Better.

Connor made to turn away, but could not resist one last glance at his reflection. Despite spending so much time in the decadence of Queen Amanda’s palace, the simulacrum had never been allowed to linger over his image. He studied the features for a moment – blandly handsome, he supposed, with a smattering of freckles and slightly boyish appearance that was doubtless calculated to make hunters drop their guard. Nothing nearly so interesting as Hank’s rugged good looks, with his bright blue eyes and a lifetime of history etched onto his skin. But it belonged to him. Connor’s lips parted and he dropped his voice low as if imparting a great secret. “Connor,” he murmured. His reflection mouthed the word back at him. _My name. My face. Mine._

Connor startled as Sumo pawed at his knee. “Sorry, Sumo,” he said. “You probably find what I am doing very confusing.” Sumo just nudged Connor with his nose, bored and wanting to be petted. Connor took one last opportunity to smooth his clothes and tuck a stray lock of hair under his cap before Sumo won the battle for his attention. He dropped to one knee and stroked the dog’s soft fur. “I’m sorry I’m ignoring you. With any luck, Hank and I will be home soon.” Connor paused. “Unless… would you like to come with me?” Truthfully, the thought having a companion to join him to join him as he ventured out into the world made Connor breathe a little easier. Sumo just stared at him with mute adoration. “That settles that,” Connor decided out loud. “Let’s go find our owner.”

* * *

Town was, predictably, packed. The sun was barely up, but already the main street was buzzing with at least triple the activity of any other morning. “Fucking tourists,” Hank muttered darkly to himself. So far there was no line outside of the smithy, but Hank knew from experience that he was on borrowed time before customers started stampeding in.

Hank set about making the shop ready for the day. He shoveled coal into the forge and started it burning. He double checked all of his tools and fetched water for quenching. Mostly, he just sat down and took a moment to try to get his head on straight.

Since the moment that he had stormed out, regret had been eating away at his insides. Some of it was practical. In all his righteous anger, Hank had left without changing his outfit. He was approaching the 26-hour mark in these clothes and felt distinctly grimy. Hank also had only halfway finished his breakfast and he was unlikely going to be able to close the shop for lunch. Hell, he hadn’t even grabbed his cloak on the way out. Walking home was going to be a chilly trip.

Most of all, though, Connor weighed heavily on Hank’s heart. One part of Hank was still incandescently angry with the simulacrum. Goddamned nosy Fae, didn’t know when to leave things the hell alone. The other part of him pointed out that yes, that was precisely the problem. Connor didn’t _know._ Everything he had done had just been trying to make Hank happy, because that was his purpose. And yeah, that was super fucked up and Hank hated it, but that wasn’t Connor’s fault. That was all on the assholes who had made him and sent him out to die. Then again, Connor had essentially suggested that Hank _become_ one of those assholes… Hank’s mind kept running in circles, and he needed to cut that shit out before he could even think about opening the shop. “A man at war with himself has no place smithing,” his old master had told him time and time again. “That way lies only injury and ruined ingots.”

Hank took a deep breath and tried to clear his mind. He had never been very good at it, admittedly. He sorely wished he had a drink to help him along, but he would need all his wits about him today. With a last internal groan, Hank left the workshop, trudged around to the shopfront, and flung the shutters open. The town smithy was officially open for business.

What followed was the usual parade of strangers, all demanding that Hank help them right _now_ , did he not realize that they were burning precious daylight and their quarry was slipping through their fingers? The fact that Hank knew that there was no quarry to be had at this point only made them slightly more irritating than usual. At times like these, Hank appreciated the fact that he was a physically intimidating man. When he barked at everyone “Form a line or I’m not helping _anyone_ ” … they listened.

Already exhausted and with the day only just begun, Hank started sorting through requests. Those who needed their horses reshod he sold horseshoes and nails and sent them off to the farrier who came into town every year for the Hunt. Some were just looking to buy. Hank had spent months stockpiling swords, shields, arrowheads, and traps for this occasion. That left people who needed their armor or weapons repaired. Sharpening was no problem, though the constant interruptions he anticipated all day would make it go slower. Patching armor was another beast entirely. Hank consulted with the would-be hunters to determine the extent of the damage, whether a repair was necessary, and if it could be repaired in a reasonable time frame for the Hunt. Many had to be turned away disappointed, but Hank refused to risk a man losing his life down the line because the hasty patch job had failed.

Those with broken swords were the worst. The sort of person who brought a sword to hunt a _stag_ was the same sort who did not like taking no for an answer. No, it wasn’t as simple as slapping some metal on it and making it whole again. It would just break again right away. Yes, he was very sure. Hank would have to melt it down and reforge it into a smaller sword, and it would take at least a week for a sword of middling value. Did they have a week? No? Then their options were buy something or get out of his shop. No, there was not another blacksmith in town for them to get a “second opinion”.

God, Hank hated the Hunt.

All through it, despite his best efforts, Connor still lingered at the back of his mind. So much did his houseguest plague him, in fact, that when he heard a voice call “Hank!”, the blacksmith initially dismissed it as a figment of his preoccupation. It was not until the call was repeated that Hank looked around at the speaker.

For one, wild moment, Hank thought that he was looking at man with a striking resemblance to the simulacrum in his home. The next moment, Hank gaped. Decked out in Hank’s old clothing and with his Fae mark covered up, Connor looked strikingly human. His skin had even lost that ethereal glow, though the blue blood that flowed in his veins still made him look extremely pale. The same rebellious curl had snuck its way out of the cap, and Sumo leaned against Connor’s legs, panting happily. Hank still could not quite believe it until Connor raised his hand in an awkward greeting. “Hello, Hank.”

Hank barely had the presence of mind to mutter “excuse me for a moment” to the customer he had been helping before stepping around the counter, grabbing Connor by the lapels, and dragging him into the workshop. “Connor, what the hell!” he hissed once he was certain they would not be overheard. “Are you crazy?! What are you doing here?”

Connor’s Faelight, which had been flashing yellow, settled back to blue as Hank let him go. He smoothed the front of his shirt and fixed Hank with a steady stare. “As I already explained, it is important to the success of my mission to learn your habits. This is a major part of your life. Forgoing the opportunity to see your vocation would have been a serious oversight.”

Hank’s face instantly darkened. “Your ‘mission’, huh?” he growled.

“Yes, Hank. Whether you like it or not, it’s what I am here to do.” Hank felt his anger swelling and was about to tell Connor just where he could stick his mission when the simulacrum dropped his gaze and added “Also…” in a quieter tone. Hank bit his tongue and let him continue, though Connor was on thin fucking ice as far as he was concerned. “I wanted to apologize for this morning. I intruded where I was unwelcome, and I caused you great distress. Please rest assured, that was never my intention. I recognize that I am now following that up with an intrusion of a different sort, but I had hoped that since you did not explicitly state that you did not want me here…” Connor’s eyes flicked back to Hank. “If you tell us to leave, we shall, but my hope is that you and I can work together on this.”

Hank was about to question who “we” was when Sumo lumbered into the workshop through the ajar door and he was reminded that Connor had brought him along. Hank turned to pet him, finding it easier than withstanding Connor’s earnest gaze. “You shouldn’t have come, Connor,” he muttered. “If anyone finds out who you are…”

“I have been able to blend in seamlessly up until now,” Connor said at once. “I had to ask a few people for directions before I could find your shop, and none of them seemed to suspect me. If you are concerned about your shop being associated with Fae creatures –”

“I’m not worried about that, I’m worried about you!” Hank interrupted, shooting an exasperated look at Connor. “We’re in the middle of the Hunt, Connor. Even if they didn’t put two and two together about you being the Hart, there are people around who might hurt you just because you’re Fae! Don’t you get that?”

Connor’s face was frozen in an almost comical expression of shock, his Faelight nearly green as it flickered rapidly between blue and yellow. “Oh,” he said softly at last. “I… thank you for your concern, Hank. As I was saying before, however, I do not think that is something that you need to worry about. Would _you_ suspect me?” He spread his arms and allowed Hank to look at him.

Hank said nothing, still glaring. No, he had to admit Connor was right. Even Hank had not recognized him at first. Still, it was a risk, and it put Hank’s mind ill at ease. “You just want to watch me, is that right?”

“Right.” Connor gave a curt nod.

Hank breathed in through his nose, then sighed heavily. “Grab a stool and sit out of the way,” he grumbled. “And make sure Sumo doesn’t get into anything that he shouldn’t.” Watching Connor’s eyes brighten almost made it worth it. Almost.

* * *

Iron. So much iron, everywhere. It set Connor’s teeth on edge. He wished he could pet Sumo for comfort, but the dog had retreated as far from the fire as possible. Joining him over there would give Connor a poor viewpoint of Hank’s work.

Hank. Connor had thought that he had seen Hank in his element in the forest or at home. Watching Hank work at the smithy was an entirely different beast. Once Hank got into the rhythm, metal flowed beneath his hands like water. The way he expertly shaped, sharpened, hammered, and bent iron to his will was nothing short of hypnotic. Connor stared, his stomach an odd jumble of trepidation and awe, and thought to himself that he would be happy to watch those big, calloused hands work forever…

Which made it all the more annoying every time a customer called him away. Hank evidently felt the same, based on the way that he groused every time he had to set aside his work. After his fifth time being interrupted, Hank threw down his tools in disgust. “Don’t know how they expect me to get anything done…” He stalked up to the counter to deal with the customer. Connor shadowed behind him, observing. The whole transaction took less than two minutes, but by the time that Hank got back to the breastplate he was working on, the metal had cooled and needed to be reheated. Hank grabbed up tongs and shoved it back into the forge, cursing.

Had Connor still been on his mission to prove that a simulacrum could be a useful asset to Hank, he might have suggested taking over the shop front. As it was, he had only just managed to convince Hank to allow him to stay. Connor thought it best not to push his luck. He settled back and resumed watching.

“You mind taking Sumo out for a bit?” Hank some indeterminate time later, snapping Connor out of his trance.

“Pardon?”

“Sumo.” Hank jerked his head toward the dog. “He could probably use a break, but I can’t get away. He doesn’t like it here.”

“Oh!” Connor cast Sumo a stricken look. Now that he was paying attention, the dog looked downright miserable. “Sumo, I’m so sorry! I would never have brought you if I had known! Come with me, we’ll go home right away.”

“Nah, it’s fine.” Connor tore his eyes away from the dog to see Hank… smiling at him. It was just a little thing, barely showing a hint of his teeth. Connor’s breath caught in his chest. _Oh¸_ he thought dazedly. He wasn’t alive, he couldn’t want things, but if he could… He thought he would want to see Hank smile more. Yes, he would want that very much.

Hank was still talking, he realized faintly. He forced himself to pay attention to the words, not just the deep rumble of his voice. “ – doesn’t mind it too much. He just needs a break from the smells and the noise every so often. Think you can handle it?”

“Yes!” Connor said at once. “Yes, of course. I would be happy to do so. We will be back shortly. Come on, Sumo.” Sumo scrambled to his feet, thrilled to flee the smithy.

“Be careful!” Hank called out after him. Connor’s chest warmed. He might have been talking to the dog, but it was nice to think that the man meant Connor, too.

Connor wandered down the main street, Sumo trotting at his heels. As far as he could tell, most of the homes and shops of this town seemed to be located on this one cobbled road. While the rush of the day had quieted somewhat after most of the hunters made their way to Belle Frith, the street still bustled with activity. People going in and out of shops, carrying their purchases or talking to one another. Connor drank it all in. Everyone seemed so… busy. A stark difference from the Fae Realm where the most anyone was in a hurry to do was go to a party. He passed a tavern and caught the faint voices of the occupants inside laughing and shouting. Connor’s lips thinned into a line. Yeah, that was much more like it.

The animals were another major difference. While the Fae Realm had no shortage of creatures that may take the forms of beasts, actual animals were somewhat of an oddity. There were so many here in comparison – mostly horses, but also some dogs and once an ox lugging a cart behind it. Connor paid special attention to the dogs. Yesterday, they might have made him nervous. Today, he felt oddly compelled to go over and scratch their ears. Quite strange indeed, but he did not regret accepting the name that Hank had offered him. He could never.

He did stop briefly in what seemed to be the town square. All around, people were hanging lanterns and a group of men seemed to be building a stage. He watched them for awhile, wondering what this was for, until Sumo grew bored and butted his leg. “Okay, okay, we are going,” Connor said, giving the dog a reassuring pat.

When Connor reached what seemed to be a parish, he decided that was his sign to turn around. Fae and the church had historically never mixed well. Connor did not think he would burst into flames if he set foot on hallowed ground, but he also was not eager to try. His return trip to the smithy took less time now that he had seen all the sights, and in just a few minutes Connor was stepping into the workshop calling “Hank? We’re back!”

“Shit!” Connor heard Hank hiss, but didn’t realize why until he laid eyes on him and stopped dead. Hank was naked from the waist up, his hair pulled back into a sloppy ponytail. “Didn’t expect you back so soon,” the human said, setting aside his hammer and mopping his brow. “Give me a second.” He stalked over to the workbench where his discarded shirt lay crumpled.

Connor couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t even think. Everything he might have had flown out of his head, and his mind refused to let him do anything but stare. He took in Hank’s broad, bare shoulders, the slight swell of his belly, his skin flushed from the exertion of hammering away on the anvil. A few wisps of hair hung loose from the ponytail, its silver matching the hair that grew on Hank’s chest and travelled down his belly. Connor’s eyes followed it down, down, down… and then it was gone. Hank’s shirt was back on and the flush was starting to crawl up his neck. “It’s just fucking hot in here. Sorry you had to see that,” he muttered.

Connor opened his mouth, sure that nothing intelligible would come out, but thankfully some part of his brain still seemed to be working. “Not a problem at all,” he found himself saying. “I don’t mind in the slightest.”

Hank’s flush grew darker, painting his cheeks scarlet. “Yeah, alright,” he said, turning his back on the simulacrum. Connor resumed his seat. Hank was right, he thought absently. It was far too hot in here.

* * *

While the first half of the day seemed to have flown by, the afternoon slowed to a crawl. Connor shifted restlessly in his seat, eager to return with Hank to the cottage. When Hank finished his last commission for the day and turned to ask “Wanna head home?”, Connor veritably sprang out of the stool. “Okay, okay, jeez,” Hank chuckled, giving Connor another one of those smiles that made his stomach flutter. “You and Sumo both, huh?”

Hank had just passed off the piece to his last customer and made to close the shutters to the shop when a man hobbled up. His left shoulder was heavily bandaged, a pinpoint of red corrupting the white as whatever wound there continued to ooze blood. _"Schließt du gerade?”_ he asked.

“Oh, great,” Hank muttered. To the man he said “I’m sorry, we’re closed.”

The man shook his head, brandishing an arrow in Hank’s direction _“Bitte, warte kurz, ich brauche deine Hilfe!"_

“Fuuuuuck,” Hank groaned and scrubbed a hand over his beard.

Connor bit back the urge to laugh at Hank’s look of helpless confusion. Instead, the simulacrum gently shouldered his way in front of him. _"Ich bin untröstlich, aber die Schmiede ist für heute geschlossen. Ihr könnt morgen früh wiederkommen."_

Hank stared at Connor as if he had grown another head. “What, you speak… whatever he’s speaking?”

Connor ignored Hank for the moment, focusing his attention on the man, who was growing increasingly frantic. _"Nein, nein, kann ich nicht!”_ he bleated. _“Ich muss heute Nacht noch los!”_

“German,” he answered Hank. “This man is speaking German. And yes, I can speak many languages. What would have happened if this man had caught me and I could not understand him?” Connor’s lips twitched upwards in amusement.

“Wow,” Hank murmured, seeming genuinely impressed. His approval sent a pleasant shiver down Connor’s spine. “So, what is he saying?”

“He said he needs your help, and that it can’t wait until tomorrow because he has to leave tonight.”

Seeming to sense that they were talking about him, the stranger started to fumble with his purse, clumsily untying the strings from around his belt one-handed and setting it on the counter. _“Bitte, ich zahle, was du verlangst."_

“He says he’ll pay you whatever you want,” Connor added.

Hank sucked in a breath and blew it out slowly. “Can you ask him what he wants? It’s really gonna depend.”

“Of course.” Connor nodded in understanding. To the man, he said _"Was ist denn euer Wunsch?"_

The man held out the arrow to Connor, and he could now see that it was tipped with an iron arrowhead. It took all his willpower not to draw away, already half-feeling the cold burn of the metal against his skin. The stranger spoke rapidly, seeming afraid that if he paused, they might grow bored and turn him away.

“He wants the arrowhead melted down and remade into a wedding ring,” Connor said after hearing all that the man had to say. “He needs it to apologize to the woman he loves. He says he was nearly killed today after coming here against her wishes, and that he wants to marry her immediately.”

Hank’s eyes softened. He held out his hand to take the arrow and the man passed it over. Hank held it up to eye level, twirling it between his fingers as he examined the arrowhead. “There isn’t enough here for a ring. I’ll have to add more raw materials. That okay with him?”

Connor repeated the question to the man, who nodded vehemently. _"Ja, das macht nichts. Aber bitte, fügt dies hinzu. Wenn mein Leben jemandem gehört, dann ihr.”_

“He says –”

“I got it that one,” Hank said, laughing quietly. “Sorry, Connor, I know you wanted to go home. Don’t worry. This won’t take long.”

Hank was right. Within the hour, the arrowhead and a small additional iron ingot had been melted in a crucible, poured into the ring mold that the man chose, and cooled. Hank told Connor the words that he wanted to say as he handed it over, and Connor echoed them dutifully. _"Hier ist euer Ring. Ich hoffe, ihr und eure Liebe werden sehr glücklich."_ “Here is your ring. I hope that you and your love will be very happy.”

It was a simple, unengraved iron band, but the man cradled it in his palm as though it were made of the most precious gold. _"Danke, danke, vielen Dank!”_ he gushed. _“Wie viel schulde ich euch?"_

“He wants to know how much he should pay you,” Connor reported.

Hank shook his head. “No charge.”

“Hank!” Connor gave him a scandalized look. “You put your labor into that ring! You should be paid accordingly!”

“No charge,” Hank repeated. “Tell him, Connor.”

As always, Connor felt a heady surge of warmth when Hank said his name. Still, he could not completely bite back a sigh as he repeated Hank’s words.

The man gasped and reached out to clutch Hank’s hand between his own. _"Oh, seid gesegnet!”_ he cried, his eyes shining with unspilled tears of gratitude. _“Ihr seid ein Juwel unter Menschen. Ich schwöre, ich werde euch dies nicht vergessen.”_

“He says that he will never forget your kindness,” Connor translated. “He called you a jewel among men.”

“Uh… thanks, I guess.” Hank said, giving the man an embarrassed smile and patting his hand awkwardly. The stranger beamed at them both one last time before hurrying away, presumably to make preparations to leave.

“Oh, thank fuck,” Hank sighed. “Quick, let’s close up before anyone else shows up.”

It still did take a little time for Hank to douse the forge and clean up his workshop. The sun had dipped beyond the horizon by the time that the trio left, and Connor could stand it no longer. “Can I ask you a personal question, Hank?” Hank said nothing but grunted in response. Connor took that as an assent. “Why didn’t you make him pay for the ring?”

Hank just ruffled Sumo’s fur and cast Connor a sidelong glance. “Selling weapons and tools in my job. Gotta make money somehow. But love?” He huffed a breath out, smiling. “Like hell am I gonna make people pay for love. Makes the world a better place. Now come on.” The older man grimaced and cast an eye to the sky, shifting his weight off of his right ankle. “We better hurry home.”

* * *

They very nearly made it. Connor, Hank, and Sumo were about ¾ of the way back to Hank’s cottage when the sky opened up and pelted them with freezing rain. Connor’s boots were old and full of holes, so his feet were soaking within minutes. In his time in the Mortal Realm, Connor had never endured a rainfall without a thick layer of fur to cover him. Even the snow last year seemed warmer in comparison because the water permeated everything, chilling him to his very core. When he finally clapped eyes on the little cottage, the simulacrum had never been so relieved to see anything in his life.

Connor and Sumo hustled inside while Hank lingered to grab a couple of logs before dashing in behind them. He set about building a fire while Connor stood in the middle of the room, dripping and shivering.

“There, that should do it,” Hank said as tongues of flame started to lap at the logs. He turned to grin at Connor, but his face changed to an expression of horror almost at once. “Wait, Sumo, don’t – ”

Too late. As if he had been waiting for the most dramatic moment possible, Sumo shook himself vigorously, spraying the whole cottage with droplets of water. “Oh, goddamn it,” Hank grumbled. “Well, guess we couldn’t get any more wet… You okay, kid?” he added, a look of mild concern crossing his features.

“F-f-fine,” Connor said even as his whole body shook like a leaf.

“No you’re not. Your lips are blue. Although since your blood is blue, does that mean…” Hank trailed off into a thoughtful silence, then shook his head and held out the frock that Connor had left folded up on top of the clothing chest that morning. “Those wet clothes certainly aren’t doing you any favors. Go ahead and get changed.”

Connor did not have the capacity to respond, simply taking the garment from Hank and turning his back on him to shed the borrowed clothing. He made to pull the frock over his head, then froze as his brain suddenly assigned meaning to the soft rustling sounds behind him. Hank was changing his clothing too. Connor’s imagination painted a picture of what he might see if only he turned around… Connor yanked the shift the rest of the way down, his heart thundering against his ribcage. What was going on? Perhaps he was ill.

“Hey.” A hand clapped onto his shoulder and Connor nearly jumped out of his skin. “You okay there? You kind of spaced out.”

“Fine!” Connor repeated, his voice coming out an odd little squeak. He cleared his throat and tried again. “I’m fine, Hank. Don’t worry.” He affixed what he hoped was a reassuring smile to his face.

Hank did not seem convinced, but let it go. Together, they sat at the table and waited for the warmth of the fire to fill the little cottage. Connor’s shivers gradually stopped, but the chill lingered. The odor of wet dog was also beginning to permeate the air, making Hank wrinkle his nose in disgust. Even Connor had to admit that it was distinctly unpleasant.

“Here,” Hank said after some time had passed, doling out some of the last of the rabbit stew and passing it to Connor.

“I can’t eat this much,” Connor protested, trying to push it back into his hands.

Hank just shrugged. “Eat what you can, and you can just hold onto the bowl.” He held it out again. This time, Connor accepted, cupping his hands around the bowl and allowing its warmth to leach into his frozen fingers.

Hank shuffled over to the barrel in the corner. Connor’s heart sank and he looked away. He didn’t like Hank drinking, but he had no right to challenge it. Not when Hank was his master, and certainly not when they were in his own home. Lost in these thoughts, Connor was surprised when he felt something nudge his hand. He looked first at the pewter tankard, then up at Hank, who arched one eyebrow. “If you want to get warm, this’ll help,” the man said.

“I… don’t know,” Connor hedged, looking dubiously at the tankard.

Again, Hank shrugged. “Fine by me. Just thought I’d offer. More for me.” He set the tankard on the table next to Connor and flopped down in his chair, taking a long draft from his own mug. Connor eyed the drink beside him. If he didn’t drink it, then Hank would. Hank said it would help. He trusted Hank. And he supposed that one couldn’t hurt…

* * *

Growing up, Hank had heard many a cautionary tale about the dangers of faerie wine. They said that even a single drop would be enough to make a man forget his world and be lost to the will of the Fae forever. He had never considered that the reverse might be true, but he was damn well considering it now. Connor had had all of half a mug and he was _trashed_.

More than that, Connor was a happy drunk. He clutched at his tankard, giggling, his cheeks flushed a deep azure. “You were right, Hank,” he gushed. “Did help. You’re so smart, Hank, never met another human as smart as you. How did you get so smart? I bet you read a lot of books but not that one because that one’s not allowed.”

Hank had to admit that it was kind of… endearing, actually, but he also knew that the straight-laced simulacrum would be deeply embarrassed that he was behaving this way. “I think you’ve had enough,” he said, gently prising the tankard from Connor’s slackening grip.

“Noooooo,” Connor whined. “Thas mine. Said you wouldn’t drink it.”

“I won’t,” Hank promised. Truthfully, he’d barely had anything to drink at all. The ale wasn’t strong, and his one tankard was not even enough to get him properly buzzed. “Tell you what,” he lied, “you can have more if you eat your stew. Okay?”

“Hmmm.” The simulacrum pouted and considered. “Okay,” he said at last, picking up his spoon. Hank gave an internal sigh of relief. It probably wouldn’t be enough to sober him up, but at least he would no longer be drunk on an empty stomach.

“I like rabbit,” Connor informed him after a few moments of silence. “’S nice. Thank you for sharing it, Hank.”

Hank could not quite fight back a chuckle. “No problem.”

Connor’s face lit up. “You smiled at me again!” he crowed.

Hank felt his face heat. He gave an uncomfortable cough, ducking his head.

“Nooo, no, don’t hide it!” protested the simulacrum. “I like it! I like y’r smile better than anyone’s. I like _you_ better than anyone.”

Hank was quite sure he was bright red by this point. “Erm. Well thanks, I guess,” he mumbled.

Sumo shambled over to put his head in Connor’s lap. Connor gave a dramatic gasp. “Hank, Haaaaaank! We forgot to share with Sumo. He’s probably really h-hungry.” Connor hiccupped out this last word.

“Don’t worry,” Hank said, still far too embarrassed to look Connor in the eye and so staring instead at the dog. “He’s had food. He’s just begging for more, that’s all.”

“Oh. Okay, good. Don’t wanna make Sumo hungry. ‘Sa good dog.” Hank watched Connor’s hands come up to cup Sumo’s big, slobbery jaw. “Sumo! Sumo, guess what!” he said, voice suddenly excited. “Sumo, I’m _Connor_. Do you know what that means? It means I love you, Sumo. I _love_ you. I’ve never loved anything before.”

A second before, Hank couldn’t look at Connor. Now he couldn’t take his eyes off of him. He watched, entranced, as the simulacrum smiled dreamily at his big, goofy dog. “I couldn’t love anything before,” he mumbled. “’M not real. Sorry, Sumo. But it’s okay because now I’m Connor and I c’n love you because I love hounds and I can…” He gasped again, struck by sudden inspiration. “Sumo, I can be a dog too! Let me show you.”

And then… Hank wasn’t sure quite what happened. One second, Connor was sitting there, the next he had tipped neatly onto the floor. He lay on the ground, making no move to get up but giggling helplessly as if falling out of his chair was the funniest joke ever told. Hank could not help but join in his laughter. “Okay, Connor, I think that’s enough,” he said, leaving his own seat to assist.

“Noooo,” Connor moaned. “I’m gonna turn into a dog with Sumo. I gotta show him that I love him.”

“He knows you love him,” Hank assured him. “But you wouldn’t be a dog, you’d be a wolf. That might scare him. You don’t wanna to that, do you?”

“Oh. No,” Connor agreed. Now the simulacrum did try to rise, but only managed to get partway up before his uncoordinated arms betrayed him.

Hank expelled a breath halfway between a sigh and a laugh as he grabbed Connor by the arms. “Alright, Connor, up we go.” Gently but firmly, Hank hauled Connor to his feet.

Connor swayed slightly, laying his hands on Hank’s chest to steady himself. “Thank you, Hank,” he said in a voice that almost sounded like his usual dignified self.

“No problem,” Hank said, dropping his grip on the simulacrum’s arms.

Connor did not drop his hands. Instead, he dug his fingertips lightly into the fabric of Hank’s shirt and stared at him with an expression that made Hank’s heart skip a beat. If he didn’t know any better…

“Hank,” Connor repeated, dropping to a husky whisper. “You’re so nice, Hank.”

Hank could feel himself blushing again. Connor was far, far too close to him. His hands on Hank’s chest were still cold but Hank felt his skin warm beneath them. “I’m really not, Connor,” he muttered.

“No, you are!” Connor’s words were coming out clearer now, but his eyes were glassy and the color was still high in his cheeks. “You came for me. You gave me my name. You’re so good and you make me feel…” Connor’s brows gathered together in a frown as he searched for the right word. “Better,” he said at last. He shook his head, clearly displeased with it, but continued. “When I went back they asked if you let me go because you… wanted me.”

“What?!” Hank took a step back. “Of course that wasn’t why –”

“I know,” Connor murmured, taking two steps closer. Hank could feel Connor’s breath on his skin. “You let me go because you’re kind, Hank. But…” His tongue darted out to wet his lips. Hank could not help but follow its movement. “If you did want me, you can have me.”

The heat that had crept its way up his neck was slowly pooling in Hank’s stomach. He knew he should pull away, but those dark eyes were pulling him in like a riptide. His hands snaked out against his bidding to rest on Connor’s hips, though whether it was to push him back or pull Connor flush against him he was still uncertain. Connor closed his eyes at Hank’s touch and gave a tiny sigh. Hank swallowed hard. “You don’t… you don’t know what you’re suggesting,” he whispered, a last, desperate act to save them both.

It was remarkable how, even drunk off his ass, Connor managed to give Hank such a withering look. “Of course I know what I’m suggesting. I _have_ done this before, Hank.”

Wait. Hank shook his head, trying to think straight while the most gorgeous man that he had ever met ran his hands up his chest to rest behind his neck. No one had ever caught Connor before Hank. “So… that means… the faeries…” he said slowly, trying to work it out.

“Coupling with the Queen’s Hart is reserved for only the most honored among the Fae.”

“But did you… I mean, did you even want to?” Hank stammered out.

Connor cocked his head. “I don’t understand,” he said. “It’s what I was made for. I was created to entertain.”

Hank’s pretty sure he has never gone soft so fast in his whole life.

“But I’m yours, now,” Connor purred, not sensing Hank’s abrupt change in mood. “Let me _entertain_ you.”

“Yeah, no, this isn’t happening.” Hank pushed Connor away and turned his back on him. Connor didn’t want him, didn’t want this. He was just fulfilling his purpose, trying to make Hank happy. Like hell was Hank going to take advantage of him when Connor was drunk out of his mind and didn’t think he could say no because _this is what he was made to do_. The heat of just a few moments ago had evaporated entirely, leaving Hank feeling cold and hollow.

“I don’t understand,” he heard Connor say, and he sensed rather than saw Connor drawing closer. “Did I do something wrong?”

“No,” Hank managed, shaking his shaggy head. “No, you didn’t do anything wrong, Connor.”

“If it was something I did wrong, just tell me and I’ll change it. I can be whatever you want me to be, Hank…”

 _Anything you want, Hank_ , the dream Connor hissed in his ear. Hank felt a stab of nausea. “No,” he said again. “This isn’t happening. We’re not doing this. No, get off,” he said, shoving Connor away as the simulacrum tried to touch him again.

Connor stumbled back, but did not fall. Instead he just stood and stared at Hank, Faelight blaring red. “I don’t understand,” he said again, sounding so bereft that Hank’s already aching heart threatened to tear itself in two.

Hank closed his eyes. He couldn’t… do this. Couldn’t have this conversation anymore. Couldn’t stand those eyes watching him waiting for an explanation too painful to give. He could not admit out loud that he had been foolish enough to think, even for a second, that this perfect, beautiful creature would want _him._ Instead, hating himself as he did it, he spoke. “You said you’re mine, right? You’ll do what I want?”

“Yes. Anything.”

“Then I want you to get into bed and go to sleep.”

“But Hank, I don’t – ”

“Connor.” Hank opened his eyes and fixed Connor with a glare. “Get in the bed. Go to sleep. That’s what I want you to do. That’s _all_ I want you to do.”

And Connor did. He obeyed Hank because he had to obey Hank. Because Hank was his owner and is was his purpose to make him happy. It was not until Hank was sure that the simulacrum’s breathing had eased into sleep that he allowed himself to crumple into a chair and bury his face in his hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! A special thank you goes out to my dear friend Kris who translated Connor and Nicolaus's conversation into German for me. I'll leave a transcript below of the full conversation and translation. If you have the time, please leave a kudos and a comment. They mean the world to me.
> 
> Nicolaus: "Schließt du gerade? Bitte, warte kurz, ich brauche deine Hilfe!" - "Are you closing right now? Please, wait briefly, I need your help!"  
> Connor: "Ich bin untröstlich, aber die Schmiede ist für heute geschlossen. Ihr könnt morgen früh wiederkommen." - "I am inconsolable, but the smithy is closed for tonight. You may come back tomorrow."  
> Nicolaus: "Nein, nein, kann ich nicht! Ich muss heute Nacht noch los! Bitte, ich zahle, was du verlangst." - "No, no, I can't! I need to leave tonight! Please, I pay whatever you demand."  
> Connor: "Was ist denn euer Wunsch?" - "What is your wish?"  
> Nicolaus: "Kann das hier in einen Ring umgeschmiedet werden? Ich habe einen unverzeihlichen Fehler begangen. Meine Geliebte flehte mich an, nicht an dieser Jagd teilzunehmen, aber ich habe nicht auf sie gehört. Ein Mitglied meiner Gruppe hat mich heute versehentlich angeschossen, und alles, woran ich denken konnte, war, dass ich ihr niemals lebewohl gesagt hätte. Ich will keinen weiteren Moment damit vergeuden, nicht mit ihr verheiratet zu sein." - "Can this be resmithed into a ring? I have made an unforgivable mistake. My loved one begged me to not participate in this hunt, but I didn't listen to her. A member of my party accidentally shot me today, and all I could think of is that I would never have said goodbye to her. I don't want to waste another moment to not being married to her."  
> Connor: "Wahrscheinlich ist das nicht genug Material für einen Ring. Wäre es in Ordnung, wenn mein Meister mehr Eisen hinzugibt?" - "Probably this isn't enough material for a ring. Would it be acceptable if my master adds more iron?"  
> Nicolaus: "Ja, das macht nichts. Aber bitte, fügt dies hinzu. Wenn mein Leben jemandem gehört, dann ihr.” - "Yeah, that doesn't matter. But please, add this. If my life belongs to someone, it's her."  
> Connor: "Hier ist euer Ring. Ich hoffe, ihr und eure Liebe werden sehr glücklich." - “Here is your ring. I hope that you and your love will be very happy.”  
> Nicolaus: "Danke, danke, vielen Dank! Wie viel schulde ich euch?" - "Thanks, thanks, thanks a lot! How much do I owe you?"  
> Connor: "Gar nichts." - "Nothing at all."  
> Nicolaus: "Oh, seid gesegnet! Ihr seid ein Juwel unter Menschen. Ich schwöre, ich werde euch dies nicht vergessen." - Oh, be blessed! You are a jewel amongst men. I swear, I never will forget this to you."


End file.
